


Year 7: Dementor's Kiss

by Arinus



Series: Calista Snape [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Childhood Trauma, Complete, Dementors, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Female-Centric, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Legilimency, Legilimens, Memories, Memory Alteration, Mental Health Issues, Mentor Severus Snape, Occlumency, Parent Severus Snape, Parent-Child Relationship, Patronus, Pensieves, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovered Memories, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape-centric, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 306,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinus/pseuds/Arinus
Summary: Thirteen years ago, Bellatrix Lestrange performed a twisted, horrifying ritual of Blood Magic on her own daughter, in an attempt to ensure that she would never escape her destiny to serve the Dark Lord.Twelve years ago, Sirius Black stole a wounded, damaged young girl out of Bellatrix Lestrange's clutches, and delivered her to the very same friends he was later accused of betraying to the Dark Lord.Eleven years ago, Severus Snape discovered a fierce, flighty child with his eyes and his ghosts, and began the painstaking process of healing and teaching that would give Calista Snape her first chance to live, rather than just survive.Six years ago, the memory of Bellatrix's ritualistic abuse nearly destroyed everything. After battling to save his daughter's mind from being possessed and destroyed by Bellatrix, Severus Snape removed the memory, and Calista finally began to make progress on becoming someone of her own choosing.Now, against the backdrop of Sirius Black's Azkaban escape, the consequences of all of those choices are converging, and Calista decides to re-assimilate her missing memory, though it might destroy everything she's become, and everyone she's come to love, in the meantime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU, because of addition of Severus' OC daughter, but almost completely canon-compliant other than that.  
> All canon characters are in character, including a believable, but still canon-compliant, Severus-as-a-father/Mentor!Severus
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Flashbacks/references to child abuse (physical/magical), dark magic rituals. PTSD. Necessary for plot, no more graphic descriptions than needed. There IS recovery/redemption.
> 
> Note: It is not strictly necessary to have read prior years, but because this was originally published with all 7 years in one story, there is not much in the way of introducing past events, so it might be helpful to read prior years.

It was strange, for Calista Snape, to have a summer break where she wasn't waiting for exam scores, or mulling over the ones she'd already received, wondering how she could improve the next year.

Severus had even eased up on her defence lessons,  _and_  her Occlumency lessons temporarily, and for the first few weeks of summer, he gave her free reign to do whatever she wanted with her days, within reason; she had her best friend Amelia over three times, and her boyfriend, Gerald  Boot, twice. Once, he even allowed her to meet Gerald, Amelia, and Amelia's girlfriend Endria in London, and they'd all gone to a Muggle library, which she and Gerald had enjoyed, but which Amelia and Endria had both declared boring, due to the lack of books about curses. She and Gerald had agreed that, next time, they'd go alone.

She and Gerald had received their scores from the Poisons and Antidotes exam, and they'd both been certified; she even received a letter along with her certificate informing her that she'd achieved a perfect score. Severus, practically gloating, had insisted on having it framed, and had shown her an older, more yellowed copy of precisely the same letter addressed to him, fifteen years earlier, when he'd taken the exam in his seventh year.

Her owl, whom she'd decided to name Lucerna, after the Latin rune for candle, as sort of a play against her father's pitch black owl Nox, quickly became familiar with the route between her home and Gerald's; on the days between when they'd arranged to meet, she was nearly always carrying a letter in one direction or the other, and Gerald's owl Uruz made the trip nearly as frequently; sometimes their letters even crossed in the air, and she'd receive one on the same day she'd sent one out.

He'd sent one letter entirely in French, and it had taken her almost an hour after dinner to translate the entire thing; when she did finally reach the end, she'd been blushing so fiercely she had to open one of the skylights in her room, to let the cool evening air settle on her cheeks. She'd written her response entirely in Latin runes; partly out of a playful sort of spite, and partly because she'd been too embarrassed to write some of the words she wanted to use out properly. She hadn't  _quite_  told him she loved him; but she'd come very, very close.

Still, as the days and gradually, weeks went by, Calista knew that this light, this freedom, was only temporary; an ethereal glow from the high shelf above the mantle in their sitting room reminded her, every time she walked through, that she was essentially a hostage of her own memory.

One warm, sticky day near the end of July, Severus brought it up, over dinner.

"We shouldn't wait much longer," he said, without preamble; she knew precisely what he was talking about, even though the last thing they'd discussed was her course schedule for her final year. "I want to leave you at least a month."

"To deal with it," she muttered, suddenly losing her appetite. She set her fork down. "To —  _recover_ , right?"

Severus set his own fork down, too.

"You don't have to do it," he reminded her, gravely.

"Yes, I do."

"No. You don't; I made that very clear."

"I can't sleep," she said, flatly. "And it keeps starting to come back, anyway — flashes of it, feelings… sometimes I wake up and I'm terrified, but I can't remember why. You said I might feel worse, for a little while, if I take the memory back; but you said if I don't, then nothing will change."

Severus nodded, tightly, confirming his words.

"Well, that's it, then. I need things to change."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

They decided on the last Friday in July; it gave Severus time to contact Albus Dumbledore, and make arrangements to borrow his Pensieve, and the forecast was for a drizzly, grey rain that felt appropriate, to Calista.

She couldn't eat, that morning or the night before, and Severus had only half-heartedly tried to make her. She'd received a couple of owls the day before, too, but she hadn't opened them. Instead, she'd put them in her room, pressed between two of her favourite books, hoping that the prospect of reading them — one from Gerald, and one from Amelia — would offer her cheer she felt she'd be in desperate need of, once this was over.

Severus set the Pensieve out on the kitchen table, and the two vials containing her memories beside it.

"It won't be like reliving it," he promised her, "It won't be that intense; it will be like watching it, instead, from the outside. You won't feel any of the pain again. And I can go with you; I can stand right beside you. You won't need to remember alone."

She nodded, and forced herself to swallow the hard lump of tension in her throat. "I know," she said quietly; it was why they had elected to do things this way, rather than using legilimency to restore the missing memories.

"It's not too late—" he began, and she shook her head fiercely, interrupting him. "No. I don't want Gerald here, and I don't want Amelia. I don't want them to know."

"It might help, to have your friends —"

" _No_ ," she said, fiercely; it was true that Gerald had promised he wouldn't think less of her for anything that Bellatrix had done to her, but Amelia had never made any such promise; and besides, it was one thing to have seen things, but… to have either of them find out that she had the Dark Mark carved into her skin? She wasn't willing to test Gerald's promise with  _that_.

"No," she repeated, and then: "I'm ready; let's do it now."

Severus' features pulled down into a grim frown, and his eyes searched her face; but after a moment, he reached wordlessly for the vials, and unstoppered them.

He poured them in, one after the other; they swirled, deceptively bright and pretty in the stone basin. Severus put his hand on her shoulder, and together, they leaned over the basin, until she felt the tip of her nose touch the cool silver of the memory —

_Suddenly, they are somewhere else. They've landed in a dining room, with dark, scroll-patterned wallpaper and a heavy, ornate dining set._

Calista's heart began to race, immediately; she knew this room. She knew this place. Beside her, her father shifted, moved his arm so that it lay across her shoulders, solidly. She was glad for the reminder of his presence.

 _One side of the table has carved chairs, but at the other, there's just a long, hard bench. At the very far end of that bench, a tiny form is crouched, scribbling in a little journal at the table she can barely reach, tangled dark hair spilling onto its surface. It takes Calista a second to realise that the form is a little girl, and a few more seconds to realise that the little girl is_ her _._

"That… doesn't look like me," she murmured, "She's too small." Had she ever been that small? It was hard to imagine.

"She's only about four or five years old," Severus murmured back, "And she's not cared for, yet. I don't think she eats enough."

There was something strangely comforting in his words — she's not cared for —  _yet_. It reminded Calista that this girl, this tiny, wretched-looking little thing,  _would_  one day be cared for. She almost managed to quirk a small smile, too, at the way he nagged, even here, even  _then_ , that she didn't eat enough.

' _Calista,' a cold, familiar voice calls out cajolingly, as a woman appears in the doorway of the dining room, only steps away from where she and her father stand._

Calista started; Severus' grip on her shoulder tightened, slightly.

"It's only memory," he reminded her.

_The woman steps into the room, and the little girl's head snaps up. A fascinating transition takes place; her tiny face, the thin mouth and the long nose and the wide, dark eyes go carefully blank._

_The woman doesn't notice, or doesn't care. She steps forward, and plucks the child up by the arm. The girl loses her grip on her ratty little book; it falls underneath the table, and she stretches her free arm out in vain, reaching for it. Her fingers wiggle uselessly in the air._

_Bellatrix walks right past past Severus and Calista, without seeing them, hauling the child along bodily._

Calista sucked in a breath as she passed; something struck her, something that seemed absurd and out-of-place.

"I'm taller than her," she said, quietly, and it was true; the shadow-Calista that stood watching  _was_  taller than the memory of Bellatrix. Ironically, she realised that if this were happening  _now_ , in real-time - if this wasn't just her own memory, she could have possibly done something to help this poor little girl.

_Bellatrix tosses the little girl onto the black brocade sofa in the sitting room, and reaches into her pocket._

Calista reached into her own pocket too, and wrapped her fingers around her wand, even though she knew she couldn't use it, here. Still, it was comforting just to feel it, beneath her fingers. She reached into her other pocket, and felt the edges of the little diary, the very same one the little girl in the vision had dropped under the table, seconds ago.

_Bellatrix's pale fingers are wrapped securely around the handle of a cruel, sharp-looking knife; on the sofa, the little girl spots it, and her dark eyes go even wider. She scrambles up, and makes a valiant effort to run away, but she isn't quick enough._

_Bellatrix draws her wand in her other hand, and casts a body bind curse. The girl falls down, almost immediately, stiff as a board. Long fingers reach down, wind themselves between the tangles of the girl's matted hair, and yank her unceremoniously up, depositing her back on the couch without even loosening their grip on the knife._

_She slips her wand back into her pocket, and eyes the girl, holding the knife up contemplatively, like an artist holding a brush; as if the frozen, terrified little girl is a canvas._

' _Calista, Calista. Do you know what good little girls do?'_

_The little girl doesn't respond; she can't. She is still bound by the curse._

"They grow up, and learn to fight you," Calista said, with quiet force, but the memory of Bellatrix couldn't hear her.

' _Good little girls stay close to their mothers,' Bellatrix coos, and then she frowns, mouth twisting up petulantly. 'But you are not a good little girl, are you?'_

_The little girl still can't move, but her eyes — her eyes are alive, they burn fiercely with defiance, overpowering even her fear, meeting the woman's cold gaze with a precocious ferocity._

"She's a very brave girl," Severus murmured, "No one can take that from her."

"I think," Calista replied, "She gets it from her father."

Severus made a noise in his throat. "Perhaps he should be here, to help her."

Calista shifted slightly, and leaned closer to her father. "He is."

_Bellatrix is not done berating the child; she runs her finger along the edge of the knife's blade, leaning forward. 'You think I do not see the way you hide all the time?' she challenges, 'You think, perhaps, that I cannot see the itch to run away, every time I bring you outside?'_

"Why the fuck do you think that is?" Calista whispered, nearly choking on her own words; she felt anger begin to bubble up inside her. It still didn't feel like the little girl was really her, but she felt protective of her, anyway. She wished she could pluck the girl off the couch, and bring her… bring her straight to the man that stood beside her, still stoically supporting her shoulders.

_Bellatrix licks her lips, and presses her finger to the tip of the blade, testing it. A thin rivulet of crimson liquid drips down the edge of the knife._

' _Mama sees everything,' she hisses, madly. 'And just in case you forget who you belong to, in case you do try to run away from me…'_

_The woman's face splits into a cold, mad grin. 'Let's make sure you don't get very far before I find you.'_

_She reaches for the girl, grabs her roughly around the neck with her free hand — now the girl's eyes do flash with fear, until she is turned around, her face pressed uncaringly into the fabric on the back of the sofa, hidden from view._

Calista felt the scratchy fabric, remembered suddenly the way her mouth and nose had become blocked by tears and snot; remembered struggling to breath, remembered the blackness and the stillness, remembered wondering if she was being murdered, if this was death —

She felt herself start to shake, and even though her father's grip was sure and strong, she wondered, for the first time, if this had been a mistake. Perhaps it  _was_  too much to bear…but it was too late, for the little girl on the sofa, and for the young woman watching her.

_Bellatrix slices the girl's robes open with the knife. Her skin is pale, and clings to her bones. There's not much to her at all; a shiver wracks her tiny frame and overpowers it. Bellatrix twists her fingers into the girl's hair again, and lowers the knife to her skin, somewhere just below the middle of her back._

Calista made a small noise in her throat; the yelp of a wounded dog. Severus pulled her closer, wrapped both arms around her; she was watching over his shoulder now, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

_Very quickly, the lines of Bellatrix's work blur and seep with blood; more than once, she has to wipe it aside, her own hand becoming sticky and stained. Blood drips on the floor, and coats the blade. It takes a long time; too long, and the girl shivers wretchedly all the while. A couple of times, Bellatrix's fingers clench and tighten in her hair, trying to hold her still._

_Finally, she yanks the girl up by her hair; the girl makes a valiant, desperate struggle to move and at last, it looks like the body bind curse has broken. She pulls out of her mother's grasp, leaving the woman clutching at a fistful of dark hair. The girl's eyes are wide and round with panic, and she slips on a spot on the floor that is slick and dark with blood._

Calista reached her hand out, unconsciously, as if she could take the girl's hand, and draw her out of the memory; she wanted to, had perhaps wanted nothing more powerfully in her life.

"We can't help her," Severus said, voice strange and hoarse. She tore her eyes away from the terrified little girl, and looked at her father — and if her heart hadn't already felt like it was being ripped violently apart, it certainly did now; his eyes, his expression, were as bleak as the shallow, matte drops of dark liquid on the hard floor.

_A horrible, high, heart-wrenching scream pulls its way out of the girl's throat; Bellatrix drops the knife on the ground with a hollow clatter, and slaps the child, hard; somehow, this seems more violent than everything else, even when Bellatrix draws her wand and aims it at the girl again._

' _Silencio!'_

_The girl falls silent, and a curtain falls across her eyes, a wall of blankess replacing the terror —_

The vision swirled, pulsing silver and blue. Calista trembled and shivered just as violently as the poor, skinny little girl had done, and even Severus' presence couldn't still her, because he was shaking, too.

Gradually, the room around them melted away, faded to darkness; but they weren't to be released, yet. Another room began to materialise around them, one that didn't look as familiar, though Calista supposed she might have seen it before. It was another sitting room, this one much plainer and somehow more generic than the one they'd just left.

"These are the linked memories," Severus managed, modulating his voice. "The ones where you remembered — that — too vividly for me to separate them. They… shouldn't be as bad."

_It is night in this room, but the thin, silver light of a nearly full moon streams through the gauzy white curtains that cover the large bay window. The tidy room houses two hulking shapes of furniture, a long three-seat sofa and a shorter one; both of which look fluffy and comfortable._

_The little girl is here, still tiny and still pale, in the reflected moonlight. She's curled up on the smaller sofa, asleep, but she doesn't look restful; she frets, quietly, emitting whimpers and breathy little gasps._

Calista took a step closer to the sofa where the child was curled up; so did Severus. This time, it was he who reached out, as if to lay his hand on the girl's shoulder. She didn't seem to feel it; his hand passed through her.

He murmured something; Calista couldn't hear it. She couldn't bring herself to open her mouth and ask him to repeat it.

_The girl is growing more distressed by the minute. She begins to stir, curling herself up tighter, as if she is hiding. Her eyes move rapidly behind thin, papery lids; she is dreaming._

' _No,' the girl mutters in her sleep, 'Mama, no.'_

_Suddenly, there is motion at the other side of the room, from the other sofa. A man is there, and he lifts his head, looking across the room, to where the little girl still moves and whimpers, in her sleep._

Calista stepped back, startled; she hadn't even realised the sofa was occupied, that there was anyone in the room besides the little girl, and the shadow-forms of herself and her father.

' _What's wrong? What's happening?' the hoarse, rough sound of the man's voice cuts across the room, but it doesn't wake the girl._

_The man waits a few seconds, shaking his head, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stands, a bit unsteadily, and then he takes a few steps across the room._

_He steps across the beam of moonlight, and his face becomes visible. He looks young, but his hair already gleams with streaks of silver in spots where the light hits it; his face is drawn, haggard, and he looks as though he hasn't slept properly in days._

Severus hissed, at the sight of the man. Calista felt a strange little jolt; she remembered that man, though she didn't remember this night at all. She remembered listening to him read aloud, remembered — once — pointing out one of the letters in her name. She'd been too afraid to tell him anything else. That was when she'd gotten the moniker 'Chloe'. She wrinkled her nose a bit, even now. She didn't like that name, never had. It reminded her of the orphanage, now.

' _Poor thing,' the man murmurs, crossing the room. He crouches by the sofa, and lifts his arm, but he doesn't quite reach for the child, not yet._

' _Wake up, little one,' he says, quietly; even though his voice is tired and hoarse, it does manage to sound gentle._

_The girl doesn't wake; she stirs more violently, and her mouth moves again._

' _Mama bad,' she half-gasps, half-cries, 'Mama, no! Mama, stop…'_

' _So you_ can _talk,' the man says softly, and he nods, as if he more or less expected this; then he does reach his hand out, and places it lightly on the girl's shoulder —_

— in almost precisely the same spot, and the same manner, that Severus had, only a moment before —

—  _and he shakes her, gently. 'It's all right; wake up.'_

_She does, now; her eyes snap open, huge and round and dark, and she gasps, half-sitting up, and scrambling backwards, yanking herself away from the man; when she backs herself against the soft arm of the sofa,she starts to veer backwards over it._

_The man reaches out, obviously trying to stop her from falling, but she's quick, and she tumbles over onto the floor, with a soft, muffled thud._

_He shifts, pushing a hank of hair out of his eyes, and peers over the arm of the sofa at the girl. She backs herself against the wall, looking terrified but unharmed._

' _Hey, little one, it's all right, it was only a dream. I want to help; I'm not going to hurt you.'_

"She doesn't believe him," Calista murmured; Severus' grip on her shoulder tightened. She glanced at him, and his jaw was set, eyes fierce, as if  _he_  didn't believe the man, either.

_The child's hands go behind her back, pulling and clawing desperately, as if trying to dislodge something._

_The man frowns, eyes going soft. 'You're safe here, little bird.'_

_Her eyes are wild, unseeing; or, rather, whatever she is seeing is in her own head. She continues to pull at her back, and to scramble away from the man's attempts to help._

The room dissolved again, swirling into a much more familiar one, with close stone walls and subterranean darkness.

_Light seeps in from the open door, the corridor beyond; the tall, cloaked shape of a man appears in silhouette, and the door opens wider. Now, in the light of it, the little girl can be seen, hunched against the headboard of the bed that nearly fills the tiny room._

_Her eyes are closed, but they move rapidly, again, beneath the thin, sallow lids. She whimpers, again, though this time, she doesn't verbally cry out._

_The man steps into the room, face creased with concern, mouth pulling down. His skin is pale, almost precisely the same shade as the little girl's; and when he perches cautiously on the edge of the bed, and her eyes snap open, their eyes are almost exactly the same: dark, wide mirrors - they both look afraid, haunted._

_Her hands go to her back, just like before, even as she inches away from him._

' _It's all right,' the man says, uncertainly, as if he doesn't quite believe it, 'Whatever you're seeing, it's not real.'_

_She doesn't seem to hear him, doesn't seem to understand; her eyes dart around the room, and now she's tearing frantically at her back, fingers picking and clawing, managing to draw blood even through the thin fabric of her nightdress._

' _Stop,' the man says, and his voice is steadier now, certain and commanding. 'Stop it, you're hurting yourself — it's not real, she's not here.'_

_The girl finally seems to see him, and manages a response; she shakes her head frantically, and keeps clawing._

_The man leans forward, mouth pressed hard and tight in a slash beneath his beaky nose, and he reaches for the girl's wrists, pulling them away from her back. She starts, and resists, but she is very small and she's no match for him._

_She starts to tremble, fiercely, and the man's eyes narrow, and then widen again. He looks utterly uncertain; he looks as lost, as confused, as helpless as the cowering child does._

"Dad," Calista murmured, feeling something break inside her; she'd never seen that look on his face. She found herself wanting to reach out, wanting to comfort  _him_ , just as much as she wanted to comfort the wretched-looking little girl. "You look so frightened."

"I was," he choked out, beside her, "I had no idea what I was doing. I just — wanted to do it right."

_He makes a decision; he sets his jaw and his eyes flash, and then he pulls the girl closer, at first by her wrists, and then, when she is right beside him despite her wild efforts to break free, he wraps his arms around her, and clutches her to his chest._

' _It's all right,' he tells her, 'You're safe now.'_

_She flails and scratches at him; she nicks the soft skin of his cheek, and he grimaces, but keeps his hold on her, repeating his mantra, over and over._

' _You're safe,' he says, over and over, until it hardly sounds like he's speaking real words anymore; and gradually, miraculously, she seems to hear him. She seems to start, cautiously, to believe him. She stops struggling, though she still shakes violently, still gasps unevenly for breath._

_And then — slowly, even that subsides, and finally, she is still. A few minutes later, she slumps against him, her head dropping lightly onto his shoulder. The man looks like he is holding his breath._

"I think you did," Calista said quietly, "I think you did it — exactly right."

_The room swirls and dissolves, reappears again, and the same scene plays out, on a different night; this time, he reaches for her as soon as he enters the room, and it takes a few minutes less for her to stop struggling._

_There is a series of nights like this, of the same room fading away and then back into place around them; the man starts to look a little bit less lost, and the girl starts to look a little bit less wild, but little else changes._

_Finally, the fifth or sixth time the room appears, something is different — a chilling, desperate scream echoes off the stone walls._

Calista started; Severus' fingers on her shoulder twitched, but his arm stayed around her, steadying.

_The girl doesn't look quite as skinny, or quite as unkempt as before — her hair is slightly tangled, but no longer matted, and her cheekbones aren't quite as prominent. She still looks wretched, in that moment, mouth open, wailing, eyes shut tight._

_The hook-nosed man dashes into the room, wand lit. His head whips around, looking for an attacker that can't be seen. He grips her shoulders._

' _Calista, wake up,' he urges, shaking her gently, 'It's only a dream, wake up.'_

_She doesn't respond, except to continue the awful, desperate sound. He hurriedly aims his wand at the corner, and a candelabra comes to life, bathing the room in soft light, and then he slips his wand into his pocket, and grips her shoulders more firmly._

' _Calista!'_

_Her eyes fly open again, and they are full of a wild, animal terror; it's immediately plain that the little girl doesn't know where she is, or who's holding on to her. She claws out, blindly, and scratches his face. He shifts his grip, grabs her wrists and holds them securely._

' _Calista, it's only me,' he says firmly, trying to be heard over her awful racket, 'You're safe. Nothing's here, nothing's hurting you.'_

_Finally, she sucks in a series of gasping breaths, and the screaming shifts, into choked sobbing. Her eyes dart around the room, only marginally less wild._

' _You're safe,' the man reassures her again, carefully loosening his grip on her wrists. Immediately, they fly to her back, begin clawing and scratching in the same familiar spot._

' _The knife,' the little girl whispers, hoarsely; it is the first time in the entire sequence of memories that she speaks knowingly, while awake. 'Get it out!'_

_He reaches for her hands again, this time simply holding them together in front of her, and he leans forward, patiently explains that there is no knife to remove, that she's been dreaming._

_It takes quite some time to convince her; he repeats himself, urges her to breathe, to calm down, while she keeps insisting that her terrors are real, are now._

_When he thinks she might be receptive, he releases her wrists, and reaches for her, in a familiar motion - but she recoils, pushing her tiny hands against him, intent on driving him away._

' _Calista, it's me,' he tells her, tiredly, reaching out again._

' _G-go away,' she chokes, terror still alight in her eyes; a shiver wracks her body and then she starts trembling, violently; her breathing is still laboured, and it only seems to be getting worse._

_He tells her, over and over, the familiar mantra: that she is safe, that he won't hurt her, but she tells him, again, to go away, and retreats further, pressing her back against the headboard, wrapping her arms around herself, except in the moments he reaches for her: then, her arms come out, and push and claw at him, refusing to let him come close. Her breathing gets shallower and more erratic, as she tries to suck in a breath, and is interrupted by an uncontrollable sob._

' _Calista,' he says, voice breaking with concern, 'Breathe. You're going to make yourself sick.'_

"It's the memory," Calista told him, her own voice wavering, because she remembered, now; she felt a sick, heavy feeling in her gut, and suddenly she no longer felt detached, like she was watching some other terrified, wounded little girl. She  _was_  that girl, and as the truth of that hit her, the heavy, brocade thread of the memories began winding itself into the fabric of her mind, and suddenly she felt too heavy to stand on her own. "She remembers — being pressed into the cushion of the sofa. She — that's why she can't breathe."

She sagged against her father, and he tightened his grip, held her strong.

"We're almost at the end," he reassured her, while the girl in the vision tried to explain the very same thing to his younger self that her ten-years-older counterpart had just done:

' _C-can't,' she chokes, 'H-help me! M-make her - make her stop!'_

' _There's no one else here,' he tells her, with a finality in his tone. 'She's in Azkaban. You're safe.'_

_Finally, this seems to penetrate; some of the terror in her eyes shifts and melts; her eyes shine with unshed tears, but they stop darting around._

' _She - she's gone?' the girl whispers, visibly desperate for the confirmation. She shivers again, and the man uses the opportunity to edge closer to her._

_He confirms it. 'Locked up, far away.'_

_The girl stiffens again, as another tremor shakes her frame. 'What if she gets out?'_

_The man reaches for her again, swiftly and smoothly this time, and tucks the little girl against him, gently pressing her head to his shoulder. 'I don't think that will happen,' he says._

_She lets him comfort her for a moment, and when her voice comes again, it is muffled by his shoulder. 'What if she does?'_

_The man swallows, and his eyes glitter. He leans over, puts his mouth right near her ear, and speaks very quietly._

From where Calista stood, she couldn't even hear him, his words were so soft; but she didn't need to hear the memory-Severus, because the real Severus leaned over, and murmured the same thing in her ear, in real-time.

"I will protect you," he told her, solemnly. "I won't let her hurt you again."

Calista shivered, and made a small, inadvertent yelp in her throat again; she clenches her jaw against the threat of tears.

She looked back at the pair from the memory.

_The little girl lifts her head, and regards the man solemnly, eyes wide and voice wobbling._

' _I was lying before,' she says, 'When I said I wanted to go back.'_

_The man answers her in kind, with solemn eyes and a crack in his voice that hints at a concealed waver._

' _I'm glad to hear that, since I was never going to send you back, anyway.'_

' _Never? Even if I'm really, really mean and I never do what you say?' The little girl sounds wary, and there is a naked hope in her face; she hangs onto the man's response, like she's drowning and his words are a rope to safety._

' _Not even then,' he tells her, with unmistakable finality, 'Although I sincerely hope, for both of our sakes, that that isn't your plan.'_

"Well," Calista managed, forcing a mirthless, stuttered laugh, "I'm afraid it was, for a while, at least."

"Isn't it still?" he murmured back, teasingly, squeezing her shoulder again.

_The little girl isn't finished questioning him. 'Will anyone else come take me?' she asks, 'To a different house, again?'_

_He brushes a lock of hair off her forehead, reading her face. 'Do you want them to?'_

_She shakes her head, fiercely. 'I don't like anyone else,' she confides, 'Except… except you.'_

_A funny expression crosses the man's face, and it takes him a moment to respond. 'Well,' he finally says, 'No one else is going to come and take you.'_

_She seems satisfied with this; she nods, and drops her head back onto his shoulder. She settles herself against him, and for a moment, she doesn't look traumatised; her face is peaceful, and her eyes drift closed._

The room swirled around them again, and suddenly, they were back on solid ground, in the dim little kitchen of their Spinner's End home.

Outside, the rain had intensified, from a spotty drizzle to a steady patter against the windows. The dim, grey light that filtered through hadn't changed; incredibly, it looked like almost no time had passed, and Calista shook her head, briefly disoriented.

It felt like another day entirely; it felt like it might even be years later than it had been, when they'd first stepped into this kitchen and leaned close over the shallow silver bowl.

Severus shifted his grip on her, and turned her towards him; for a second, she met his gaze, instantly reading the concern within.

Suddenly, she wasn't in the mood for it; everything she'd just seen was writhing through her - not just through her mind, but, it seemed, through her gut, through her heart, through her very bones and blood. She dropped her eyes away from his, took a step back.

"Are you all right?" he murmured, and she knew him well enough to detect the slight edge of helplessness beneath the worry.

She felt very tired suddenly, and very heavy. Even opening her mouth to respond to his question seemed like an immense task.

"You knew I wouldn't be," she reminded him, woodenly, shaking his grip off entirely. "You knew that better than I did."

It was strange; while they'd stood within the vision, she'd repeatedly felt the sting of tears, had been on the edge of letting them fall for what felt like years — but no, it was still the same dismal, grey morning. Now, she felt simultaneously leaden and jittery; like snakes were writhing around inside her body, hissing and threatening to bite, and she could even feel their weight, added to hers.

"I'm going upstairs," she told him, with finality. He stepped closer; she could hear the swish of his robes, see one foot coming towards her. "I'm going to bed."

"It's only half past ten," he sounded slightly bewildered.

"I don't care. I'm tired."

"Calista…"

She ignored him, even though some distant part of her knew it wasn't fair. She  _knew_  how much he cared, how deeply he felt the same pain, the same awful gaping sadness from the memories that she did, and yet…

She felt some of the weight fall off, with every stair she took; like one of the little snakes slithered out of her with each individual footfall. She glanced back at the first landing, half-expecting to see them wriggling their way up after her.

She climbed all the way up to her attic room, and lowered herself onto her bed without remembering the walk, as if she were in a trance. She curled up with her her back flat against the headboard, tucking her knees under her chin.

Her eyes turned down the length of the room, towards the trapdoor she hadn't had the energy to close behind her, focused on nothing, seeing nothing; not even the heavy, wriggling little snakes of memory that she knew were slowly creeping towards her.

That was the thing about being haunted; you couldn't always see your tormentors, but that didn't make them any less real.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus slept restlessly that night, and woke early, before the sun. He went into the kitchen and opened the kitchen window, wide, so the  _Daily Prophet_  could be delivered. Of course, the damn owl was coming later and later these days. It had never been a problem when they'd lived in London, but now that they were in a no-name suburb of Manchester, it sometimes didn't come until nearly lunchtime.

Since his plans to turn the attic room into a workshop for himself had obviously been disrupted, he used the kitchen when he needed to brew a potion. It was cramped, and the table was the wrong height, and by the time he'd finished a Calming Draught and was bottling it, he had a painful crick in his neck, and was yearning for his workroom at the castle.

The sun was well over the horizon when Severus set the newly-stoppered flasks away in a cupboard, and set to rinsing out his cauldron in the too-small sink, and  _still_  the paper hadn't come. He needed a distraction, something to keep his hands and his mind engaged, so he could resist the temptation to pester Calista, to force her to speak with him.

He had gone up to check on her several times yesterday, and she'd been the same: closed off, unwilling to talk. She needed time to process the memories before she could really talk about it; he knew that, had even been warned by the Headmaster that the acclimation process would likely be difficult because of the length of time she'd been separated from the memories. And still, his instinct told him to pull her close anyway, so they could comfort each other. After all, the memories might be new to  _her_ , but he'd been familiar with them all along, and they ate at him now, acidic and fresh.

At least she had been sleeping, the fourth and final time he'd gone upstairs, sometime around midnight. She had looked slightly fitful, but not enough for him to wake her. Not enough to alarm him. It was better, surely, than the other times he'd gone up, when she'd only stared through him wordlessly, a mirror of the distant, haunted girl they'd witnessed in her memories.

He would give her a few days, and then they would  _have_  talk. In the meantime, he supposed he ought to make breakfast, and rouse her from sleep so that she could eat, even if she didn't want to talk.

He glanced out the kitchen window, toward the horizon again as he set a frying pan on the stove. He squinted against the morning sun; there, was that the shape of an owl in the distance, or only a trick of his eyes?

An insistent knock came from the direction of the front door, suddenly, and Severus nearly dropped the frying pan on his foot in surprise. Who the  _hell_  could possibly at the door, at — he checked his watch — nine o'clock on a Saturday morning?

He grimaced waspishly, and strode for the door. Some Muggle salesman or missionary, no doubt, though why in Merlin's name they'd bother with this decrepit neighborhood, he couldn't say. He swung the door open, and nearly blinked in surprise.

"Mr. Boot," he said, taking in the familiar sight of a particular teenaged boy on his doorstep, "Calista neglected to tell me she was expecting you to visit, today."

Had she written to him last night? He hadn't seen her owl leave; but she must have. He supposed that was probably a good sign.

"Erm, that's because she's not," Boot said, and Severus noticed that the boy's usual careful cheer, the cautious smile he had offered Severus on his last few visits, were absent. Instead, his brow creased with worry, and a frown pulled the corners of his mouth down. "Sir, is she — has she seen it, yet?"

Severus did blink, now. Since when had his daughter's relationship with this boy progressed to a point where he felt he could simply drop by, unplanned and unannounced?

"I came as soon as I saw," Boot continued, in an anxious tone, "I know I should have written her I was coming, but I just — I knew it would be awful for her, and I wanted to get here as quickly as I could."

"Saw  _what_ , Mr Boot?" Severus asked, a bit sharply.

"The paper," Boot said, slightly bewildered, "The  _Daily Prophet_  article. She… she hasn't seen it yet, then?"

"If you're referencing an article in today's paper,  _I_ haven't seen it yet," Severus snarled, opening the door wider, and turning away. He strode back in the direction of the kitchen, assuming Boot would follow him in, but not quite inviting him to do so. "The damn thing's always late."

As if he'd summoned it, an owl swooped through the kitchen window just as he reached the doorway, dropping the paper into the sink.

"Blasted bird," Severus muttered, snatching the paper out before it could get wet from the remnant water he'd left behind when he'd rinsed his cauldron out. The owl took off, perhaps sensing it wasn't getting a tip for that day's delivery, while Severus unfurled the paper.

The first thing he saw was a wild, barely recognisable man, staring insolently at him through a mane of lank, matted hair. The second thing he noticed was a headline that froze his blood.

_INFAMOUS MASS-MURDERER SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN, CURRENTLY AT-LARGE: PUBLIC URGED TO REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS SIGHTINGS._

Severus swore, and jerked back into the sitting room; Boot was still lurking, uncertain, on the doorstep, behind the half-open door, and Severus waved him in impatiently, brandishing the paper with a shaking hand.

Boot slipped into the room, and eased the door shut behind him.

"The article says they don't know how he did it," the boy murmured, "That's going to terrify her…"

"Yes, it will," Severus agreed, grimly. He swore again.

"They'll catch him soon, though," Boot tried and failed to inject a hopeful note into his words, "They've got to, they've got all of wizarding Britain on the alert, and - the article said they're even going to tell the Muggle Prime Minister to print his picture in  _their_  newspapers. Once they've got him, they've got to make him explain how he got out, so no one else can use the same tricks."

"It hardly matters right now  _how_  he did it," Severus said, with a worried glance towards the bookshelf that concealed the door to the stairs. Had he imagined hearing her footfalls? "This is — Boot, this is worse than you even realise."

"I don't see how that could be," the boy said, "I realise it's… abysmally awful."

"She knew him," Severus told the boy quietly, because he couldn't very well tell the boy the rest of it, tell him  _why_  Calista was in no state to receive this news today, of all days. "Sirius Black."

The name twisted and stung its way out of his mouth.

"Did he…" Boot swallowed, and his frown pulled down even further. "Did he hurt her?"

"I don't know," Severus told the boy honestly, "But he's her mother's cousin, and he's the one that delivered her to —"

He cut himself off; he realised he didn't know whether Calista had ever told Boot that she'd lived in an orphanage for a time, when she was young.

"You don't think," Boot had paled considerably, "You don't think he's going to help  _her_  try to escape, do you?"

Severus' blood felt like ice in his veins, and yet somehow it was bubbling up, like lava.

"I'll kill her myself," Severus hissed, "If she escapes — if she comes near —"

"She won't," Boot said, and his voice was steely despite the fact that it shook, slightly. "I mean — she probably won't escape, but if she does… she  _won't_  get near Calista. And he — Sirius Black —  _he_  won't get near Calista, either. We… you and I, sir… we won't let them."

Severus' gaze flicked over the boy, instinctively assessing.

"Black and Lestrange are a pair of ruthless mass murderers," he reminded the boy, in a tone as sharp and cold as steel, "Infamous for their crimes, as well as for the master they committed them for; I don't imagine you can even comprehend the depravity of some of those crimes. And you claim to be willing to stand between them, and my daughter?"

Boot didn't waver. He nodded grimly, straightening his spine and squaring his narrow shoulders. "If I have to, yes."

Severus noticed that the boy's fingers had curled instinctively around his wand; if there was deception or insincerity in his eyes, Severus couldn't find it.

"Stay here," Severus said, after silence had stretched between them for several seconds. He jerked his head towards the sofa, but he didn't wait to see if Boot sat or not; instead, he drew his wand, and tapped it to the bookshelf to his left, causing it to swing open and reveal the staircase behind it.

Once he had heard the door snap closed behind him, he started up the stairs.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista stared blankly at the inside of her wardrobe, fingers still clutched at the edge of its door, as if it was holding her up.

She knew she'd been up here too long, since her father had gone back downstairs; knew she'd been standing just here, unable to turn her mind to what she should put on, unable to turn her mind to much of anything, for at least twenty minutes.

She could only replay what Severus had told her, again and again.

Not  _Mr. Boot is here; he's downstairs_. Her mind could work its way around that, even if she was surprised and even if today was  _not_  a day she was particularly keen to see him -  _or was she_?

It was the other thing he'd said that was swirling through her mind, and holding her hands and feet still.

 _It wasn't her_ , Severus had begun, and she'd known that whatever he'd come up to tell her was going to be awful. Nothing, though, could have prepared her for how awful it truly was.

 _It wasn't her_ , Severus had repeated,  _But there's been — Calista, the first thing I need you to understand is that you are safe, you are perfectly safe. No one is going to hurt you, not while I'm living._

Her heart had begun to pound, but she hadn't been able to make her mouth work, hadn't been able to push any words out of her throat.

 _I'm afraid_ , he'd continued, and she'd felt the truth of those two words as if he'd shouted them,  _I'm afraid there's been a breach — of course he will be recaptured soon, perhaps he has been already, but — there has been an escape, from Azkaban, Calista. Sirius Black has escaped._

He had said a whole lot of other things, after that; that the Ministry was searching every corner, that the Muggles were on alert as well, that security at the infamous prison was being watched more intently than ever, that there was absolutely no reason to believe anyone else would escape, or that Black would be at large for very long.

It wasn't until he stopped telling her things, until he  _asked_  her something, that she'd been able to speak.

_Calista, please, say something. Tell me if you're all right; Tell me, do you understand what I'm telling you?_

_I'm fine_ , she'd said, automatically, but fiercely, stubbornly, and then,  _Go away. I have to get dressed._

He'd fussed and frowned before he'd finally gone, reminding her that Gerald was downstairs too, and that she should come down when she was ready. When he'd finally gone, he'd muttered something about making breakfast, even though Calista didn't think she'd ever eat again in her life; her stomach felt like every single one of the little phantom memory-snakes was inside of it, and they'd given up slithering and wriggling and had gone straight to biting, to sinking their fangs into her, devouring her from the inside out.

She shook her head, glancing down as if expecting to see blood seeping through her yellow nightdress, but of course — like all the worst kinds of pain — like the Cruciatus Curse itself — the things that were hurting her, that were tearing her apart, were invisible.

"I have to get dressed," she murmured; it was the last thing she'd said to her father, and she said it again, and again, until the words made sense and finally eased her into action.

She pried her fingers off the edge of the wardrobe door, and reached into the depths of her massive collection of clothing, pulling out the first thing her fingers landed on. It was a dress, a summery yellow dress in an impossibly light fabric.

Like all the rest of her clothes, it had come from her aunt. She supposed it was a very pretty dress, but she had never worn it, because she thought the neckline was too low and the hem too short; except for the colour, it seemed like something Olivia Avril would wear, and so Calista had never wanted to.

She changed into it, felt the airy fabric settle over her, and then she opened the wardrobe door wider, so she could see herself in the long mirror that was hung on the inside.

She felt something bubble up inside her; when her throat opened up, and her mouth did, and sound came out, she realised she was  _laughing_.

The dress wasn't really as short or as low-cut as she'd thought. It was actually quite a lovely dress, and the colour was like sunshine, enchanting and uplifting.

The dress was — and this was why she was laughing — the dress was the visual equivalent of the lie she'd told her father, of the lie she told  _everyone_.

 _I'm fine_. That's what the dress was saying. Calista closed the wardrobe door, and went downstairs.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The first thing Calista noticed, when she pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs, was the  _smell_.

Something smelled absolutely fantastic - like garlic, and parsley, and a myriad of other fresh, delicious things. Something smelled so wonderfully enticing that Calista, who had moments ago truthfully thought she might never eat again, was suddenly and violently  _hungry_.

The second thing she noticed, as she stepped into the sitting room, was that her father was in it, standing at the centre and watching the stairs expectantly, a look of worry twisting his features.

The third thing she noticed was a low, gentle sizzle; the sound of something cooking. But… if her father was  _here_ …

"Who's cooking?" she asked, "And  _what_  are they cooking?"

"Mr. Boot insisted that he wanted to make breakfast. I told him you… probably wouldn't be in a mood to eat much, but —"

" _Gerald's_  cooking?" Calista said, feeling her eyebrows go up; then she felt a hollow, rolling storm in her gut, and she was about to blame the imaginary snakes — but then she realised that their aggressive writhing wasn't the sensation she'd felt at all — it wasn't even their phantom fangs, venomous and sharp.

"I'm  _starving_ ," she said, and it was true. She went into the kitchen, and — just as Severus had said, there was Gerald, with a cluster of ingredients she hadn't even realised they had in the house spread over the worktop; he was carefully pulling something out of the oven, something that emitted a cloud of fragrant steam when he set it on top of the stove.

She took a deep breath, and felt her stomach growl again. Well; she had discovered the source of the delicious smell, at any rate.

"What  _is_  that?" she asked, stepping closer.

Gerald looked at her; she saw his eyes widen, and faint spots of pink appeared on his cheeks. She supposed it must have been from the heat of the dish he'd just taken out.

"It's — erm, it's a breakfast casserole. A little bit of everything, really. Eggs, potatoes, onions, leeks — oh, and bacon. Normally, I use sausage, but — I remember you said you didn't like it, so I used bacon instead."

"It smells fantastic." She stepped even closer, and peered into the casserole dish. It looked as good as it smelled.

Gerald blushed deeply. "It's… nothing, really. I mean — I make it a lot, at home."

Severus stepped into the kitchen then, sidestepping Calista and opening the cupboard where they kept an array of mismatched dishes. He removed three plates, and three mugs, and only  _then_  did Calista realise that there was a full pot of coffee on the far counter, and a pot of hot water for tea on the stove. Severus passed the stack of plates to Gerald, and busied himself filling two of the mugs with coffee.

In a moment, Calista had been ushered into one of the three rickety, mismatched chairs, with a mug of steaming black coffee thrust into her hand. A fragrant, steaming plate of Gerald's casserole was set in front of her too, and a fork.

She ate half of it before she even remembered the coffee, in her hand. She realised that Gerald and her father, though they  _had_  each sat down with their own plates and mugs, were watching her. Gerald, at least, was trying to pretend he wasn't. She saw him hastily pick up his own fork and look away, when she met his gaze.

She scowled, and then lifted her mug, draining a third of the cup's contents in one sip. The dark, acrid coffee burned on its way down her throat; somehow, she found it comforting. She took another, smaller sip, and then set the mug carefully down.

"I don't know how you can drink that stuff like that," Gerald ventured. She glanced across at him, and noticed he had the string of a teabag dangling from his own mug.

"Coffee is fantastic," she said, "You don't know what you're missing."

"Oh, I do. Fantastic isn't the word I'd use though," he teased back. He took an assessing look at her, and then nodded. He picked up his fork, and started to eat.

"This is fantastic, too," Calista said, attacking her own plate of food again. It was; it was possibly one of the most delicious things she had ever eaten. Every bite was cooked perfectly, and very well seasoned. "I can't believe you made this."

"It's nothing," Gerald said again, but he looked — despite everything, despite the reason for his visit; despite the sinister grey roll of the paper on the corner of the worktop that Calista knew must be the newspaper that had brought him here — he looked quite pleased.

Between the three of them, they made short work of the casserole. Calista had two large helpings, and another full mug of coffee, and then she felt utterly full.

There was something, though — with the food, and the coffee, and the sunlight that streamed in through the open kitchen window, soaking into her skin — she realised she was so full that there was no longer any room for any of the vicious, wriggling snakes.

That didn't mean, of course, that any of her demons had gone away — even the most delicious breakfast in the world, which she suspected she might have just eaten, couldn't do  _that_. But still — the ghosts, the memories, the hurt… they were within her, still, but they no longer felt quite like they were consuming her.

She picked up her plate, and carried it over to the sink. Severus was already standing, and he plucked it out of her hands.

"Since Mr. Boot did all of the cooking," he said, quietly. "I suppose I'll clean up. You go on into the sitting room, both of you. I'll be in shortly."

Calista obeyed, and she felt Gerald's presence behind her, heard the creak of the loose floorboard in the sitting room as he followed her in. Calista heard the faucet turn on behind them.

Perhaps it was the dimmer lighting — the sun didn't hit the window at the same angle, in this room — or perhaps it was just the snakes returning after all, but Calista suddenly felt heavier, again. She sank onto the sofa, and clutched her hands together, in her lap, in case they decided to start shaking.

She thought Gerald might sit beside her, and she thought that might be okay, as long as he didn't say anything, as long as he didn't ask her if she was all right — because, for once, she wasn't certain she was capable of repeating the same lie, the one that her dress was already telling him.

He didn't, though; instead, he crouched on the floor in front of her, so their eyes would have been level if she'd dared to look up at him, and he reached for both of her hands with his.

"I'm so sorry, Calista," he said, quietly. "I know you must feel frightened, and traumatised, and — frankly, plain awful. I don't know if there's anything I can say or do to make you feel even the tiniest bit better, but if there is, I hope you know I'll do it."

"I hate that word," she finally said, when she found her voice. The sounds of running water, and of dishes clattering gently together in the kitchen told them that Severus was still busy.

"Which word?"

" _Traumatised_." She practically spit it out, felt it skitter past her lips like a venomous spider, on stiff, pointed legs. Something moved, beyond Gerald's shoulder, and she looked up, instinctively following the motion.

It was only Yellow; evidently, he'd been napping underneath the armchair at the other side of the room, and he eased himself out from under it now, stretched, and yawned. His pink tongue rolled up, and then he seemed to spot Calista; he closed his mouth, and bounded across the room, leaping up onto the sofa to settle beside her.

"I'm sorry," Gerald said again, steadily. "I'll try not to use it again."

"Why not?" she mused, extracting one of her hands from his, and reaching out to stroke her cat's soft grey forehead instead. "It's what I am, isn't it?"

"It's not the only thing you are," Gerald ventured. It reminded her of something her father had said, when she'd asked him the same question.

"I suppose sometimes it feels like it is," she said, very quietly. She still didn't want to look at him, so she looked over at the cat again; and then, suddenly, something broke loose in her chest, something that — like nearly everything — she'd been holding onto for a very long time.

"Do you want to know why I named him Yellow?" Calista asked, in the same hushed tone; her eyes were still fixed on the cat, fingers rubbing behind his ears. He purred appreciatively, and nudged his head against her leg, against the light, shimmery fabric of her deceptively cheerful dress.

"If you want to tell me," Gerald murmured, evenly. His fingers rubbed against the inside of her palm; she hadn't even realised, at first, that he had been doing that, or that it was actually, strangely comforting.

"I always wanted a cat," she said. She couldn't even remember, now, how she'd come to be aware of the fact that cats could be kept as pets; certainly, she hadn't learned it from her mother. As far as her mother had taught her, only  _she_  could be kept like that.

"I knew I'd never have one, of course; the way things were… I knew I'd never have anything that wasn't — that didn't hurt. I don't know if I can describe… but then, you already know, don't you? Your father… I don't have to."

She drew in a breath. Dimly, she was aware that the water in the kitchen had stopped, though there were still various muffled sounds, cupboards opening and closing, chairs being shifted.

"I guess most children — other children — are different than I was. I guess they have toys, and games, and — and things they like to do. I didn't… I never had any of that. I mean, I suppose I did - there were dolls and things, in my room, though I don't know where they came from, because I can't imagine she bought them for me. Perhaps Aunt Narcissa did; I don't know. But it didn't matter, because I never played with them. I never looked forward to anything, I never asked for anything, I never — I never did anything, except try to hide, and try to imagine that she was going to go away, someday."

Gerald shifted, perhaps to ease some of the weight off his knees; he did slip onto the sofa beside her now, on the opposite side from where Yellow still purred obviously. He kept one of his hands on her free one, twining his fingers securely between hers.

"I suppose the only fitting word for  _then_  — for everything, for the way all of it was, every day — is horror. For a long time, I think that's all I really knew. And then, when good things started to happen — when someone — believe it or not, it was  _him_ , it was Sirius Black — when he took me away from her, to a house full of strangers, and they seemed so  _different_  from what I knew… I didn't have the word then, but now I know they were… well, they were  _kind_ …"

Gerald's other hand had slipped behind her back, and was gently tracing careful circles over the delicate fabric of her dress. There weren't any sounds coming from the kitchen, now, though Severus still didn't appear.

"When things like that started happening, I didn't believe it. I was suspicious; I  _knew_ , somehow, that she had planned it, that it was a trick, and that if I fell for it, things would only be worse when she did come back for me. Only, she didn't. That man, Sirius — he brought me somewhere else, after a while — the orphanage, and that was… a different kind of horror, I suppose. I never saw him again, or any of the other people from that strange house. I never saw  _her_  again either, but I also never stopped expecting to."

Gerald's fingers still moved, the left hand rubbing the inside of her palm, and the right continuing to move over her shoulders, and her upper back, in a soothing pattern of motion. Despite everything, it  _was_  comforting. A light, trembling shiver passed over her shoulders, and it wasn't fear. It was something nice.

"My dad found out about me, somehow — I've actually never asked how — and he came to get me, and  _that_  was something I believed even less than I believed any of the other kindness I'd seen. It had to be a trick; because the longer I was with him, the more things began to change. He kept telling me that she was gone, that I was safe, and that — that he  _cared about me_ , and I can't — I don't know how to explain what that was like, for someone who had never even really understood the concept of caring at all."

"Oh, sweetheart," Gerald murmured, sadly; Calista blinked. He had never called her that before, at least not in English. Like his fingers against her palm, and his hand on her back, she thought it was, in that moment, at least, comforting. A reminder that there were a great many people now, including him, that  _cared about her_.

"Eventually, I believed him. About — about caring, but also about  _her_  being… gone. Locked up. And then… once I didn't have to worry  _all_  the time, once I didn't have to spend every minute in fear… I started to notice things I never had before. I started to… I started to  _like_  things. Flowers, and sunshine, and snow. Blueberries, and bacon, and… animals besides cats. Rabbits and owls. Birds. Thestrals. Unicorns, even though I've never seen one. I realised I really liked the colour yellow, I think because of the flowers and the sun… it was the very first  _favourite_  thing that I ever remember having. And so… so when I finally got a cat, like I'd always wanted… he was my favourite, and so I named him after the only other 'favourite' thing I had. I named him Yellow."

Gerald was quiet; when she finally dared to glance at his face, she was startled to realise that he was  _crying_ ; his brown eyes were dewy, and a tear rolled underneath the rim of his glasses, falling until it reached his mouth; it paused there, suspended on the ridge of his upper lip.

"I don't think I —" Calista started in a shaky voice, and then she shook her head; suddenly, she felt like she might start crying herself. "No, I  _know_ I've never told anyone that, before."

Gerald sniffed, and he let go of her hand, reaching up to swipe rather roughly at another tear, one that had just dropped from his eye. She noticed that he was nowhere near as gentle, when brushing his own tear aside, as he had been with hers, several weeks ago. It felt like years ago, now.

"I'm sorry," he managed, a bit breathily, "I don't mean to - I just…"

"Yeah," Calista said, a bit hollowly; still, she was starting to feel… not better, precisely, but — for the first time in two days, she was starting to  _feel_  something that encompassed more than just fear, more than just pain. "I know; it's not really a very happy story."

"No, it's not," he agreed; even though he reached up again, and brushed another tear away, the first one still trembled, intact, on the crease of his mouth. "It is — beautiful, though. The name, and the reason."

She was fixated on the tear now, and suddenly the hollowness inside of her started to hum and vibrate with something else, a feeling that was nothing like anything she expected to be feeling… and yet, she  _was._

She realised that she wanted, desperately, to kiss him; to press her lips against his, to have that single tear dissolve between their mouths. She wanted to remind herself that she wasn't that girl, anymore; that she wasn't alone, and that a great many things in her life, now, were — as Gerald had just described, beautiful.

"Gerald…" she whispered, and she could both hear and feel her voice trembling. She felt something warm slip down her cheek, and she realised that  _she_  was crying, too. And then she felt a faint tickle, at the corner of her mouth, and she realised she had a tear stalled there, too.

She sucked in a tentative, uncertain sort of breath, and then she glanced towards the doorway; despite the silence from the kitchen, there was still no sign of Severus.

She leaned forward, and she did exactly the thing she wanted to; she pressed her mouth to his, and she lifted both of her hands up to his face, cupping his jaw. She felt a drop of moisture, underneath one of her palms — and she felt the tears between their mouths dissolve, just as she'd expected; and then, she forgot about the tears, forgot about everything except the feel of Gerald, of their lips together, of the line of his jaw under her hands.

Suddenly, his hands were over hers, and he pulled them gently away, lifting and holding them a few centimetres away from his face. He pulled back about the same distance, and looked at her, with those soft, brown eyes. For a second, she wondered if she'd been too bold, but — the  _look_  in those eyes wasn't telling her so; it was telling her that he was enjoying their kissing as much as she was.

"Calista," he murmured, "You've had a shock today; you're — vulnerable. Are you certain…?"

"Yes," she said, despite the fact that her father was undoubtedly still in the next room, and that she hated the word  _vulnerable_  almost as much as she hated  _traumatised,_ not least of all because they were both true. Still, she was telling him the truth; she felt that, in her bones, and in her heart.

"Yes," she said, again, when he still didn't look convinced, "Yes, I've had a shock — more than one, actually, and yes, I am —  _vulnerable_  — and, yes, I want to keep kissing you. I'm… quite certain."

She did hear a noise from the kitchen now; it was the sound of the door, the  _back_  door, that led to the yard, opening and then closing. And then… silence, again. She waited for footsteps, but they never came. Did that mean that her father had gone  _outside_ , then? She supposed he could have a letter to post; they kept their owls caged outside.

"Well, then," Gerald said softly, and he brought her hands in close again, let them settle back against the sides of his face, "If you're certain…"

He initiated the kiss this time, but soon, it didn't matter — it was both of them, wanting, and giving, and tasting. It was bittersweet, because part of the taste was the salt of their tears; the ones that had already fallen, and perhaps a few more in Calista's case; but there were other tastes too, and there was the softness of Gerald's mouth, the warmth of his skin, underneath her fingers — and then there was the devastatingly light touch, of his fingertips gently rounding the edge of her ear, and, with the other hand, brushing the contours of her chin, her jaw, the side of her neck.

Nothing, not even the most heartfelt, wonderful kiss, could drive away her many ghosts, the pain of her memories — but she found that they had shifted, somehow, and that, even though she still felt them acutely — even though they still ached and pulled her towards a dark place — there was room for other things, brighter things, as well.

There was room for things like sunshine, and yellow flowers, and a cat with an ill-fitting name; there was room for joy, and for feeling things that filled her up rather than hollowed her out. There was room for the protective love of a parent who would truly, gladly set his own life aside for her the betterment of hers; and there was room for a warm, sweet kiss from a boy who had beautiful eyes and an unbearably light touch, and who always opened a book to the index page first.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Slowly, as summer progressed, Calista began to thaw. In the first few weeks after her memories had been returned, there had been many times her eyes had gone blank, empty.

There had been many times she withdrew, both physically and emotionally; not only from him, Severus, but also from Boot, when he came over - an occurrence that happened at least twice weekly, after his unannounced appearance on the day the news about Black had broken.

He had advised Boot not to let Calista withdraw, but there were times when she could not be coaxed away from doing it, by either one of them, and there were times when attempting to force it only angered her; both of them, unfortunately, ended up on the receiving end of her ire more than once, that summer.

Both of them, though, found ways to draw her out; more often, it would happen on sunny days, and after she had eaten a full meal. Boot insisted on cooking nearly every time he came over, and even Severus had to admit, the boy certainly had talent in that regard; Merlin knew, getting Calista to willingly eat a second helping of  _anything_  was nearly a miracle in itself.

The more miraculous thing was that, even though she snapped and snarled at both of them — at Severus quite a bit more often than at Boot, if truth be told — she  _also_  opened up to both of them.

Severus had had the idea to brew potions with her again, as they done when she was small, and as they'd done during most of the past school year. Despite the cramped kitchen, the less than ideal workspace, or perhaps  _because_ of it — she talked, almost always while their hands were moving and their eyes were on bottles and recipes. She told him other things she had remembered, bits and pieces of her past. She told him about her nightmares, both past and present; and she admitted that, even though they had gotten worse at first, the dreams were starting to taper, now.

She'd opened up more to Boot, too; he'd overheard, one day, an idea the boy had had. He'd heard the boy confess that he liked to speak to her in French sometimes not only because — and Severus' lip had curled, inadvertently, when he'd heard the first part — but not only because it was romantic, and made her blush;  _also_  because it was easier, sometimes, to say something that seemed embarrassing or difficult to say, if he said it in another language.

Boot had suggested that, if there were something she wanted him to know but which was difficult to tell him, she might try saying it Latin, which both of them understood; she'd scoffed at first, but then he'd heard them, a few times, and he'd even glimpsed her sending a letter that appeared to be written entirely in the ancient language.

As she warmed, as she thawed — as she, as she'd put it earlier in the summer,  _recovered_  — she began to see her other friends again, too. The Slater girl came over twice, towards the end of the summer, and she'd gone to London with her, Boot, and Miss Folland again.

He had a hard time saying no to anything she asked for that summer, truth be told; in the earlier part of the summer, it had been because of the horror that lay before her, in the recovered memory, and in the later part of the summer it was partly because of that same horror that lay  _behind_ her, and partly because she seemed, somehow, to be coping with the idea of the escapee Black, being at large.

If  _he_  lost sleep at night, tossed and turned with fearful imaginings that the foul, twisted murderer Black would creep up on her and snatch her up, well, that was best kept to himself; because, perhaps  _most_  miraculously of all,  _she_  didn't seem to be caught up in that fear, even though she  _had_ , in some manner, been snatched up by him, many years ago.

He kept his fear to himself as best he could, because — as terrifying as he found the prospect of Black on the loose — there  _was_  something even more terrifying to him, and that was his daughter losing all of the progress she had made, all of the courage and strength she had gained, and becoming that terrified, isolated little girl, again. He'd glimpsed that, in the immediate aftermath of her returned memories, and  _that_  was the worst thing he could imagine.

In the final weeks of summer, despite the looming ghost of Black's prison escape robbing him of much-needed sleep, and tormenting him with visions that he'd wager would rival any of Calista's nightmares, despite two separate nights where her horrors had come back, had caused her to wake, screaming, remembering the knife dream — despite  _all_  of that, many more things happened that gave him hope.

He'd heard her, when her friend Amelia was staying the night and he'd gone up to fetch them for dinner, telling Amelia about the orphanage, and about her magical little diary; she'd told Amelia that she used to use it, sometimes, to write nasty things about the other girls in the orphanage that teased her, and then her friend had instantly and gleefully jumped in, speculating on what they'd write in the book about the Avril girl and a few others at school. The two of them had laughed, and had sounded so wonderfully  _normal_  that Severus almost questioned the fact that he'd ever worried Calista  _wouldn't_  be able to handle the memory.

He thought, too, that it was likely the first time she'd told Miss Slater, or any of her friends, much about her childhood, and even though he knew it was hard for her to tell, he thought it could only help for her to have more people close to her that understood, at least on some level, what she'd been through.

The other Ravenclaw, the Clearwater girl, had come over once with Amelia too, and the three of them had stayed up all night, playing wizard chess and borrowing his books — the less offensive, and less expensive ones, of course, and the fact that he let the two Ravenclaw girls put their talons one even  _those_ spoke to just how loathe he was, that summer, to deny Calista anything that might make her happy.

The thing that had given him the  _most_ hope, though, had occurred at the very end of the summer, only three days before term was meant to start again; two days after he'd reluctantly allowed Calista to go to London, alone with Boot, for the entire day so they could see a Muggle play he was interested in for his birthday, and go out to dinner afterwards.

He had paced the length of the ground level of their flat for the better part of that day, fretting that he'd somehow misjudged Boot - even though he knew he hadn't - or that Black would see them, or that she'd be hurt in any of the hundreds of other ways his paranoid mind could devise.

He was thinking along those lines again, while he was in the sitting room on  _that_  day, three days before term started, trying not to eavesdrop on whatever Boot and his daughter were up to in the kitchen. They'd brought in armfuls of books, and they'd both been copying runes when he'd last ducked his head in, but — they'd gone  _quiet_  again, and that normally meant that Boot had his blasted mouth on her, and even if he did like Boot a lot more than he'd ever liked Flint, he'd still prefer for  _no one's_  mouth to be on her —

He'd curled his lip, and bent his head low over his own book, determined not to spy, not to insert himself where he most  _definitely_  was not wanted, when he'd heard something completely unexpected, completely heartbreaking, and — that filled him completely with hope, as absurd as it seemed.

" _Interrogabo vos et ego aliquid,_ " Calista had murmured, hesitantly; he'd barely heard well enough to translate the Latin.  _There's something I'm going to ask you…_

" _Ita est?_ " Gerald had responded:  _What is it?_

Severus had perked his ears, despite himself, despite the fact that he knew whatever they were saying was very likely none of his business, or anything he would want to hear. Still… he leaned slightly towards the doorway, in his chair.

" _Operor vos…_ " she'd begun —  _Do you have..._  and then, in a rush: " _Operor vos ullus cicatrices?_ "

Severus sucked in a breath, soundlessly.  _Do you have any scars_?

Boot didn't reply verbally, or else his response was so soft that Severus couldn't hear it. There was a long silence, stretching perhaps thirty or forty seconds, and then he heard Calista's voice again:

" _Habeo quoque_ ," she said, in a very small voice.  _I have them, too_.

He did hear Boot's response, this time: " _Vis loqui?_ ".  _Do you want to talk about it?_

"No," she'd said, a bit more forcefully. " _Nondum. Paenitet me._ "  _Not yet. I'm sorry._

There was another long silence, and then — faintly, the sound of quills scratching against parchment.

It wasn't everything; but it was more than she'd ever said before.


	2. Chapter 2

"Reckon they'll cancel exams this year, too?" Amelia asked hopefully, by way of greeting, as soon as she'd breached the barrier to Platform 9 ¾ on the first of seventh year.

"How could they? It's our N.E.W.T. year," Calista said, reasonably. "We need these exam scores, to find a job or an internship when we're done with school. Besides, even last year, they still had O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s."

"You sound like Percy."

"No, I don't."

"Yes," Amelia insisted, stubbornly, "You do. Oh, look, speak of the devil."

Percy had just appeared at the barrier, next to his younger sister, Ginny. He was looking around, and after a moment, his face lit up and he took off nearly at a run, puffing his chest out.

"Well, we know two things," Amelia said, "He hasn't lost that blasted badge yet, and Penny's that way."

"He'll never lose that badge, are you mental? I bet he sleeps with it under his pillow."

They boarded the train, Calista helping to carry Amelia's things, since her father had already brought her trunk, and both of her pets, to the castle for her.

"I'm surprised he even took Yellow," Amelia remarked, as they heaved Amelia's trunk up the steps to the train, "Doesn't he usually refuse to?"

"It's not so much that he refuses," Calista said, once they'd gotten the trunk onboard and were dragging it down the narrow passageway between compartments, "It's more that I'm afraid he won't feed him, or he'll 'accidentally' open the cage and let him loose; but he promised he'd just let Yellow out in the Slytherin common room as soon as he gets to the castle, and he does hate the train. Yellow does, I mean. He always hisses the whole ride."

"Yeah, you're telling  _me_ ," Amelia groused, "You usually leave him with me while you go to your stupid Prefect meeting. Here, this compartment's empty, let's stop here."

"Erm, so that's the bad news," Calista said sheepishly, "I still have the Prefect meeting."

Amelia scowled. "Can't you skip it?"

She snorted. "Right, with Penny and Percy in charge? I'm sure they won't notice. I'll come right back as soon as it's over."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. If Percy ever shuts up, anyway. Have fun."

Calista made a face, partly to appease Amelia; but once she entered the Prefect compartment and the meeting started, she felt the face coming back on its own. Percy and Penny certainly both  _did_  like to talk. Calista had never realised there were so many possible nuances to patrol routes, and reporting infractions.

They had come up with a new form, that all of the Prefects were supposed to use, whenever they assigned a detention or docked House points; Penny explained that it was to curb accusations of favoritism, but Calista suspected it was because the two of them both  _loved_  paperwork.

The meeting went on… and on… and  _on_ , so that Calista started to worry Amelia was going to be cross with her, and think she'd been blown off. Outside, the rain intensified, and the sky grew steadily darker;  _was_  it nightfall already? It certainly seemed like she'd been listening to Percy describe the precise paths he wanted each of the patrol routes to follow for long enough that they ought to have reached the castle by now…

Suddenly, the train groaned and squealed, and ground to a halt. She could hear the thuds and bangs of luggage being knocked to the ground in other compartments, though no one had brought theirs into the Prefect compartment; instead of falling luggage, all she had to contend with was the jostling of two dozen teenagers all struggling not to fall over with the sudden stopped motion for the train.

"What's going on?" she heard a few people ask; Percy was waving his arms for order, but he looked just as bewildered as everyone else.

She heard the doors of the train slide open, even though they weren't at Hogwarts yet. The lights went out, and it was suddenly very dark. Then, even though she hadn't heard footsteps — hadn't heard anything for the space of several seconds but confused voices asking what was going on — the compartment door slid open.

Calista felt suddenly leaden, and ice-cold; a cloaked, skeletal figure had appeared in the doorframe, and she felt as if she were being sucked towards it; or, rather, as if all of the happy feelings inside her, every single one she'd ever felt, was beign sucked away…

She had one logical thought.  _Dementor._ But that  _wasn't_  really logical, was it? She was on the Hogwarts Express, she wasn't in Azkaban…

_Bellatrix licked her lips, and lifted her wand._

' _You_ will _learn to obey,' she hissed, 'You'll do as Mama says.'_

Calista felt dread rolling around in her gut, like a solid object; she fumbled in her pocket for her wand, drew it out as if it weighed a thousand stone.

"Exp… Expecto…" she stammered; gods, she was  _so cold_ , and it was so dark…

_Bellatrix's mouth quirked, into a crooked, anticipatory grin._

' _Crucio!' she howled, pointing her wand straight at Calista —_

"Expecto Patronum!" she whispered, fiercely, and it felt as if it took all of her energy to force the words out of her mouth, on a struggling breath.

_No; not her wand. It wasn't her wand, in Bellatrix's hand. It was a knife, and she advanced on Calista, eyes glittering maniacally._

_There was blood on the blade, and she remembered now how it had gotten there._

_With a sick, heavy dread — heavy like the black brocade of the sofa she could feel scratching the skin of her cheek, her forehead — heavy like the air that she couldn't quite suck into her lungs, past the snot and tears, past the blackness of the sofa cushion…_

"Ex...pecto..." she mumbled again, but the words wouldn't come; she felt her wand slip out of her hand, and then — if she ever  _had_  been on the train, surrounded by familiar faces, she wasn't anymore.

_She shivered violently, as the cold enveloped her; but the cold was only the beginning. She bucked and struggled, or she tried to, but the spell — Bellatrix's spell — held her firmly in place, an invisible vise._

_She could feel tears stinging her eyes and splashing over her face — and then, she could feel the pain, sharp and fierce, like fire and ice at the same time, along her spine._

_She couldn't breathe; had the spell frozen her lungs, too? As she struggled to draw in air, to squirm away from the relentless pain, it occurred to her that this might very well be it. This might be the death her mother had always promised would meet her, if she did not learn to obey…_

_Warm hands gripped her shoulders, suddenly, and the room was flooded with light, blinding her. She opened her mouth, and sucked in a great, gasping breath, relieved that, at last, she_ could _._

' _It's all right,' a distant, vaguely familiar voice was saying, 'They've gone…'_

_A face floated in front of her, a tired face with wary brown eyes and a grim expression -_

_\- but that was wrong, he wasn't part of_ this _memory; he belonged somewhere else, in a spartan sitting room with a heavy volume open on his lap, reading -_

_Or in the same room, at night, stepping across a beam of moonlight to wake her; unless that was precisely what was happening; unless she was dreaming again, after all…_

' _Chloe,' the man said, quietly; his eyes widened, in surprise or in recognition._

' _Erm,' came another voice, a female one. This one was familiar, too, but it still sounded like she was hearing it from underwater, or from very far away. 'Her name's not Chloe, sir, it's Calista.'_

_The man made a small sound, and looked down, fumbling with something; a moment later, there was a sweet, sharp scent, and a blurry shadow - she realised he was holding something under her nose._

' _Eat this,' the man murmured, softly. 'It's chocolate; it will help.'_

 _It_ was  _chocolate, and that was odd, because she'd never dreamed about chocolate before; actually, she didn't think she'd ever dreamed about a smell before, at all._

' _Does she…' the man's voice was slightly further away now, slightly higher up, as if he'd risen or she had fallen. 'She's your friend, I take it, Miss…?'_

' _Clearwater,' the female voice said, and Calista remembered who the voice belonged to, now. 'Yes, she's my friend.'_

Penny. It was Penny. Somewhere, somehow, that sunk in, and the room, the dark room with its brocade sofa and heavy tapestries, began to fade away.

"Does she," the man was saying, and the strange thing was that as the room, and the dream, faded away, the man's voice only grew  _clearer_ , even though of course he was part of the dream, part of the memory. "Does she usually speak?"

"Hm?" Calista could see Penny now, as she swam into view. She could see her friend furrowing her brow. "Of course she usually speaks," Penny answered, "Professor — you are a Professor, right? — Is she going to be all right?"

The man's face was still quite clear, and so was the small hunk of chocolate that he was still holding out, near the level of her face. He was standing, and he had his wand in his hand. He looked slightly older than he had in Calista's dream - or memory, or - whatever it was.

He glanced down at her, and she thought she saw a peculiar flicker, in his eyes; but that was just the dream, obviously.  _He_  was just the dream. She felt very odd still, heavy and hollow at the same time, and still very cold. She shivered.

"I need to return, and check on the other students," the man said, and Calista suddenly remembered that she had been on the train to school, before the horrible nightmare had started, "Your friend should recover well enough, with time and with the chocolate. It really does help, if you can get her to eat it."

Penny nodded, and took the chocolate from him, as Calista tried to understand what was happening, tried to piece together how she'd gotten here.

The man stepped out, through the compartment door, and then she remembered who -  _what_ , really - had come through that door, in the very last minute she remembered from the train.

"Dementor," she gasped, urgently, to Penny, who was settling gingerly down beside her; she realised she was sitting on the floor of the compartment, and that quite a few of the Prefects had left, presumably to give her space. "There was a — there was a dementor, on the train."

"Yes, we know," Penny murmured, holding the chocolate out, "It was awful, wasn't it?"

"Was?" Calista glanced around; most of the Prefects that remained were ones that she was friendly with, though Hecate Rowle's brother, Orpheus, lurked near the door. "It's… gone, then?"

"Yes," Penny said, "It's gone. Here, eat this, it's true - it  _will_ make you feel better. I've read about it."

Calista accepted the chocolate from Penny, and took a cautious bite. Warmth immediately flooded her, as if she'd just had a very large cup of coffee.

"I… I cast the Patronus charm," Calista remembered, "I don't know why that didn't drive it away."

Penny frowned. "You did try to cast the charm," she agreed, hesitantly, "But… erm, Calista, it… didn't really work."

"What do you mean, it didn't work? I can cast it; I've cast it before. You've seen it."

"Yes, I know," Penny said, "But — it didn't work this time. You produced a bit of a silver wisp, and that's… I'm afraid that's all there was, and then you… you fell. Fainted, I think. Percy went out to look for help, and that's when he came across that man - he's a new Professor, I think - and Percy told him we needed help, so he came in with the chocolate."

Calista blinked, taking another bite of chocolate; it really  _was_  making her feel better. She felt better enough, in fact, to realise that she was still sitting on the floor. She scrambled quickly up, and looked around. She saw her wand, which had rolled several paces away, and snatched it up.

"That man — he  _was_  really here, then?"

Penny's frown deepened; hesitantly, she reached out, fingers stretching towards Calista's forehead, as if to check her temperature. Calista scowled, and stepped back, out of reach.

"Where  _is_  Percy?" she asked hurriedly; she noticed he wasn't one of the Prefects that had remained in the compartment.

"Oh - well, after the Professor came in, someone said his sister was in trouble, too. He went to check on her. You're looking a bit better now; Do you feel any better?"

"I'm fine," she said automatically. "I don't understand, though… the Patronus charm… it  _should_  have worked. And… that man..."

She shook her head. She must have been caught in the dream still; of course the man she  _thought_  she'd seen wasn't the one that had really come into the train compartment… it couldn't possibly be, could it?

"Well," Penny said, reasonably, "It  _is_  supposed to be more difficult to cast, with a dementor around. After all, a Patronus relies on cheerful memories, doesn't it? And dementors suck those away."

"But I'm supposed to be able to — and  _why_  was there a dementor, on the train? And why is there a  _professor_  on the train?"

"Why do you think they're here?" Orpheus Rowle sneered, suddenly; she hadn't realised he'd been paying attention to their conversation. "They're looking for Sirius Black, obviously. Must've thought  _you_  were hiding him… he  _is_  related to you, isn't he?"

Calista felt her stomach knot and her heart sink, and it wasn't only due to the lingering wisps of memory that still teased at the edges of her vision.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

She'd felt too weak and disoriented to go looking for Amelia on the train, so instead she craned her neck, looking for her, when she'd stepped carefully down, in front of the line of waiting carriages.

Penny had gone to find Percy as soon as they debarked the train, leaving Calista standing by herself, huddled underneath the overhang at the platform.

Rain was coming down in cold, heavy sheets. Her eyes searched the crowd for Amelia, while her ears perked, reflexively, at every sound nearby. The rain made it harder to see  _and_  to hear, and she was cold again. It was hard to believe she'd felt warm, on the train, after eating the chocolate.

She saw Daisy, a little ways away, looking pale and a bit shaken. She stepped forward automatically, thinking she ought to check on the younger girl, but then she saw Daisy's brother George usher her into a carriage. She'd be all right, then.

A hand touched her shoulder suddenly; she started, despite the light pressure, and immediately the hand was withdrawn. She turned her head; the rain must have covered the sound of approaching the footsteps, or perhaps they'd just been quite soft - she sucked in a quick, light breath, as she registered who had approached.

It  _was_  the man she thought she'd seen, though she could tell now that he looked older than he had in any of her memories, in any of her visions. His tired face was lined, in more places than it had been before. The eyes were the same, though: brown, and bright, and wary.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, quietly, and the voice was so familiar - perhaps because she'd just heard it again, over the summer, in the replayed visions. She shivered involuntarily, as the image of Bellatrix holding a silver blade rose up, clearing the surface of her mind —

 _No._  She forced it back down, clenching her teeth and clamping her jaw shut. Suddenly, she thought she might be sick.

"I sent an owl ahead to the school," he continued, "Informing Professor McGonagall that a few students - yourself included - had fallen ill on the train. I expect she'll want to check on you when we arrive, or perhaps your Head of House will."

She blinked, and peered at him intently; partly, she wanted to be  _certain_  he wasn't still somehow a fragment of memory, and partly, she meant to determine if he was trying to be funny. Of course her Head of House would want to check on her. She was surprised he wasn't here right now, fussing grimly.

The man frowned, eyes alert and searching her face. He looked nearly as puzzled, as surprised to see her, as she felt about  _him_.

"Speaking of arriving," he managed, and finally his eyes left her face, and shifted over to the line of carriages, "We never will, if we continue to stand here. Shall we?"

He motioned toward the nearest carriage, one of the last ones in the line. Some of the others were already pulling away, full of students. In the distance, finally, she could see Amelia, trudging towards her through the mud and rain.

She stepped forward, off the platform and out of the rain cover, towards her friend. The man stayed behind, on the platform. She thought she could feel his eyes on her.

Amelia picked up her pace, hurrying through the rain, and she and Calista met a few paces from the carriage.

"I'll come meet you after the Prefect meeting," Amelia imitated, scowling at her, eyes narrowed. "I won't forget about you, I prom— oh."

Amelia's eyes widened, and her frown softened. "Calista, you look — are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Calista said, reflexively, as Amelia looked past her, towards the carriages. There were only two left now, as the rest pulled away, led by the lanky, dark forms of the school's thestrals.

"Who's that?" Amelia wondered; Calista glanced back, towards the man, who was still standing on the platform, eyes trained in the direction of the few carriages that remained in the line.

 _Remus_ , Calista remembered, in a sudden flash; she saw a page of calligraphic letters, the man's finger pointing to each of the letters in turn.  _'R-e-m-u-s.'_

She realised he wasn't looking at her, anymore. He was watching a trio of students climb into one of the other remaining carriages. Calista glanced in the same direction, and noticed Hermione first; then Percy's youngest brother, and then, of course, Potter.

She never had a chance to answer her friend; Amelia had looped a sodden arm through her elbow, and was tugging her towards the nearest carriage.

"Of course it has to be  _raining_ ," Amelia muttered, as they slid into the dark, empty carriage, dripping rainwater everywhere. "Did you know, I  _straightened_ my hair this morning. Fat lot of good that does, now."

Calista glanced at her friend; her brown hair, which  _had_  been sleek and straight that morning, hung in limp, wet curls now. Calista imagined hers must not look much better. She shivered again, and drew her cloak tightly around herself.

"New Professor?" Amelia guessed uncertainly, peering out the window. "Doesn't look much like one."

"Erm," Calista started, intelligently; after all, she didn't know  _why_  the man was here, or even who he was really — and it didn't seem, under the circumstances, if he  _was_  a Professor, that she should be calling him by his first name.

"Yes, indeed," came a mild, pleasant voice, as the man appeared, and heaved himself into the carriage behind them. "Professor Remus Lupin - I'm still getting used to the 'Professor' part myself, but I'm tasked with teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts this year. And, at the moment, I suppose, seeing you up to the castle."

He pulled the door closed behind him, and Amelia hurriedly crossed the small coach, nudging Calista aside to share the bench on her side, and leaving the bench on the other side clear for Professor Lupin. He settled on it, and though his gaze swept towards the window, where rain continued to pelt beyond, Calista was perceptive enough to feel it sliding over her, briefly, first.

He remembered her, too; she was certain of it. Then she remembered something, from the train.

' _Chloe',_  he'd called her; only she didn't know if he'd really done that, or if it had been part of the vision of memory, brought on by the dementor.

"My name isn't Chloe," she said, suddenly; her voice echoed flatly off the interior walls of the carriage. "It's Calista."

Amelia's head whipped towards her, and she was looking at her now as if she'd gone mad.

"Erm - no one said it was?" Amelia said, as if she'd gone mad.

The man, however — Remus, Professor Lupin, whatever she was supposed to call him — didn't look confused in the slightest, although he did look mildly surprised that she had spoken to him.

"Yes, your friend did inform me of that," he said, quietly; somehow, his voice didn't echo as hers had done. "Please accept my apology; I'm afraid you reminded me of someone…from quite a long time ago."

His expression was perfectly placid now, as if convinced that he  _had_  mistaken her identity, but Calista was nearly certain she'd heard an inflection at the tail end of his words, a subtle question.

She held her silence for a moment, wondering how to respond, without allowing the shadowy ghosts of  _certain_  memories to resurface; the thestrals hooves clopped sloppily in the mud, and the rain made a gentle drumbeat against the window.

Amelia shot her a very unsubtle look -  _what the hell is going on, here?_

"It's quite all right," she finally managed, matching his even, pleasant tone precisely. A wave of fear threatened to surge up from the depths of her mind; curiously, when she glanced back at the ma and met his steady, alert gaze, it quieted. "I'm certain it was a mistake anyone could make."

"Calista," Amelia whispered, nudging her, "What are you talking abou—"

"Do you suppose Professor Vector meant it," Calista cut in, voice firm and steady, "When she said she was going to set us a quiz on our first day back?"

Amelia snorted. "Of course she did, that sodding old cow — er, sorry, Professor."

Professor Lupin smiled, blandly. "Sorry, I'm afraid didn't hear that over the rain."

Amelia grinned, as they bumped and rolled along the muddy track. "Hey," she said, after a minute, sitting forward, and peering through the window. "Isn't that - aren't those more of those horrible dementors?"

" _What?_ " Calista leaned forward sharply; she could feel her heart start to race, and her fingers went immediately towards her pocket, scrabbling for her wand, even though she wasn't certain any longer that it would do her any good.

"They won't be able to harm you in here," the professor said, with a quiet, reassuring authority. She found that she was inclined to believe him; there was an echo of the familiar in his tone.

Still, she tensed as they passed the gates - another wave of cold came over her, and the air she sucked into her lungs felt chilly, thick, and forced.

The carriage pulled past the gate, and she could breathe again. Nearly as soon as it had stopped, Remus — no, Professor Lupin, she had to get used to thinking of him by that name, if he really  _was_  going to be her professor — opened the door, and stepped out.

The rain was slowing, now, but it was still cold. Calista and Amelia took a fortifying breath, preparing to go out into the raw air, when a familiar voice floated through the open door.

"You  _fainted,_ Potter?" her cousin Draco's voice rang out, gleefully, "Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually  _fainted_?"

"Draco," Calista murmured, registering his voice before she registered his words or his tone, "The dementors - I should make sure he's —"

"Did you faint as well, Weasley?" Draco sneered loudly, and Calista frowned, stepping down from the carriage. It had better not be Percy, or his poor sister, that her cousin was taunting. "Did the scary old dementor frighten you too, Weasley?"

She stepped out into the icy drizzle, looking in the direction her cousin's voice had come from - but she didn't need to intervene, Professor Lupin had gotten there first.

"Is there a problem?" she heard him ask mildly; she only had time to register that it wasn't Percy or his sister Draco was taunting, but the brother, Ron, that was friends with Potter, before another familiar figure caught her eye.

Her father strode down the stone steps toward her, and she forgot all about Draco, and about the Professor who had seemed to materialise directly from her memories onto the train. She even forgot to pretend to be annoyed that he had come down, very obviously to fuss over her.

"Calista," he said, mouth set in a downturned grimace, as he reached for her, one hand gripping her shoulder, and the other reaching up to brush over her forehead. "I received word you'd taken ill on the train - Minerva was owled, evidently."

She could hear the snap of irritation in his voice, at not having been informed personally. He started to usher her up the steps, and then he paused, and his face twisted and snarled, looking at something or someone beyond her.

"Ah, Severus," came the mild voice of Remus —  _no_ , she reminded herself, yet again,  _Professor Lupin_ , behind her, "Please accept my apology."

Severus practically growled; Calista turned, and glanced at Professor Lupin. Although his tone was mild, his expression was deeply, incredibly intense; she couldn't shake the notion that there was some sort of subtext to his words, even as he continued, logically and evenly:

"Albus  _did_  tell me that you were serving as the Head of Slytherin House. In the interest of time, I only sent one owl ahead, to Minerva, regarding the unfortunate events on the train — it looks like the message regarding one of your students  _did_  make its way to you, however; I'm glad for that."

"So," Severus snarled, and Calista felt his grip on her shoulder tighten, "It's true; the Headmaster  _has_  utterly lost his mind, and brought you on as a Professor. Mark my words, Lupin - once I've had a proper say, you  _won't_  be staying long. I'd suggest you hold off on unpacking."

Calista narrowed her eyes, looking between the two men; Lupin's eyes were sad now, resigned. She looked up at her father; his expression was twisted with hatred, and — well, the fear had to be for her, still; his fingers digging into her shoulder told her  _that_  clearly enough.

"Dad?" she questioned, sharply, "What's going on?"

Professor Lupin's gaze shifted to her, swiftly, and then back to Severus, and finally, to her once more. Then, his brown eyes widened, with genuine and undisguised surprise.

" _Ah,_ " he said, and suddenly he looked rather as if something had just clicked into place, some puzzle piece that had been eluding him.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Severus snarled, and he drew her protectively closer to him, as if she were a small child again, and as if Professor Lupin had lunged at her, rather than merely look at her. "A brief and unfortunate lapse in the Headmaster's judgement, which I'm certain will be promptly corrected."

"Really now, Severus," Professor Lupin said, tiredly, "We're not schoolboys anymore; surely we can —"

"Come, Calista," Severus snapped, cutting the other man off, and wheeling away abruptly. He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders, and steered her forward.

"Do you need to rest?" he asked, as they mounted the steps; she felt his gaze sweep over her face again, though his jaw was still tense with something more than simple fear. "I can excuse you from the feast - or perhaps I'd better escort you to the hospital wing…"

"I'm fine," Calista snapped, because suddenly the memories were threatening to surface again, and she thought she might be able to keep them at bay if she simply refused to think about what had happened. "Professor Lupin gave me some chocolate."

If she'd intended to calm his nerves, her plan backfired horribly.

"That mongrel is hardly a  _professor_ ," he sneered, rounding on her as they entered the castle, as if she'd done something to anger him; but no,  _not_  anger, precisely. She recognised, again, the tense, white-lipped expression of fear on his face. "And you will  _not_  be attending Defence class during what I am certain is to be his  _incredibly short_  stint pretending to be one."

"Severus," came the rolling, powerful voice of the Headmaster, as he approached. Students straggled into the castle behind him. So did Professor Lupin; she saw him duck into the opposite corner, and begin steaming his robes dry with a jet of hot air from his wand. She shivered, and realised she ought to be doing the same thing. "Please join me in my office for a moment, before the Sorting begins."

"I need to see to Calista—" he began, and Professor Dumbledore took a quick, inventorying look at her.

"Poppy can do that; it is, after all, what we employ her for. Calista, you know your way to the hospital wing, I presume?"

She nodded, even though it didn't appear that the Headmaster was truly interested in her response. He steered Calista's father quickly and firmly away, leaving Calista to wonder, much as Amelia had, during the carriage ride, precisely what the  _hell_  was going on.

A line of dripping, muddy first years shuffled in, most of them looking terrified and miserably wet. Penny and Percy came in at their heels, looking nearly equally bedraggled. She didn't know where the rest of the Prefects had gone, though she wouldn't blame them if they'd gone off in search of a warm fire.

Percy was looking out over the heads of the first years, expression strained; she supposed  _he_  was probably looking for the rest of the Prefects, too. His eyes lit on her.

"Ah, Calista," he called, sounding exasperated, "Professor McGonagall seems to be absent at the moment, so the first years are still in our charge, although everyone  _else_  seems to have forgotten that fact."

For once, she was suddenly and intensely grateful for Percy's bossiness, for a reason to focus on something else,  _and_  for an excuse not to go to the hospital wing, or wait for her father's return. She had a feeling that either of those options would lead to questions she didn't want to answer, regarding what had happened on the train: questions that might tempt certain ghosts to reappear in her mind.

She  _did_  however, very badly want to talk to Gerald, to tell him about Professor Lupin, and the strange interaction between him and her father; more importantly, she wanted to analyse precisely what could have gone wrong with her Patronus. Perhaps after the feast, she could find him, and...

She frowned, remembering that Gerald was no longer a student. She wouldn't be able to find him in the library, or in Ravenclaw tower, or anywhere else.

Halloween, when the first Hogsmeade weekend would take place, suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

"Albus, surely you must see the folly in this," Severus was saying, urgently, as he leaned over the Headmaster's desk, "Especially now, with Black on the loose — his old friend —"

"Imagine, Severus," the Headmaster said calmly, "If I were to judge every teacher I appointed based on his or her  _old_  friends. Whom do you suppose I could safely hire, then?"

Severus' lip curled. "Someday," he remarked, darkly, "I would dearly like to have a conversation where you can refrain from goading me, old man."

"I'd dearly like that too," Dumbledore agreed, almost dreamily. "Someday, indeed. In the meantime, Severus… I hardly expected to have to remind you so soon of my words. Not a word, Severus, on Lupin's unfortunate…  _condition_."

"You don't need to remind me," Severus nearly spat, "I can remember with perfect clarity a conversation from scarcely an hour ago; and I hope  _you_  remember  _my_ words with equal clarity."

"Do you recall," the Headmaster queried, "A certain promise you made me once, that having your daughter here at the school would not interfere with your assigned duties?"

"That — " Severus narrowed his eyes. "That was before she was even a student; and I don't recall seeing 'allow my only child to be mauled by a  _werewolf_ ' listed among my duties, when I took the post."

"Your duties, at the present time," Dumbledore said, matter-of-factly, "Are to teach Potions.  _Not_  Defence Against the Dark Arts; not even for one student."

Severus' face twisted, in a pained scowl. "Why?" he asked the older man, wretchedly, "Why do you do this to me?"

"Really, Severus," the Headmaster said, standing, "You're sounding more and more like a foolish schoolboy carrying a grudge. My decisions are final, and I won't argue them any further. Professor Lupin is here, as my trusted agent and as a Professor of this school - just the same as you are."

Severus pressed his mouth together, into a thin, white line.

"Naturally, in the sixth and seventh years, students are free to drop certain subjects," Albus said, and for a moment Severus almost thought he'd come away with a victory, "If Calista decides to drop Defence Against the Dark Arts, as ill-advised as it would be, I can't very well stop her."

Severus nodded, and stepped back, prepared to take his leave with at least that concession, but Albus held up a hand, indicating that he wasn't finished.

"However, the ministry policy is very clear: a student may not sit an official examination for a class they have not taken."

Severus' lip curled. "She could pass the N.E.W.T. exam now; she doesn't need to sit in a classroom with  _that_  to be prepared…"

"Ministry policy disagrees," Dumbledore said, with finality, "And so do I. Ah, and Severus, I do believe Calista is of legal age now, yes? That means, as I'm sure you know, that a request to change her class selections should be submitted directly, and not by a parent on her behalf."

Severus set his jaw grimly, already envisioning an extremely unpleasant conversation with his daughter.

"Ah, and Severus, do not forget — you are sworn to secrecy regarding the nature of Professor Lupin's affliction; you have already agreed that you will not speak a word of it to  _any student_. Naturally, that includes Calista; unless you intend to try and convince her to drop  _all_  of her classes?"

"I am meant to keep her blind to the danger, then?" he demanded, barely controlling his anger. "Just as you would have the rest of the school be kept blind to it?"

"The danger, as it were, will be well mitigated," Dumbledore said, mildly. "I have the utmost faith in your ability to keep us supplied with the potion needed to ensure that."

Severus jerked his head forward, a minor acknowledgement that there was truth to that statement, at least; he'd keep enough supplies on hand to produce ten times what they'd need, simply out of an abundance of precaution.

"Now that we've reached an understanding, Severus," Dumbledore said, and his tone finally softened slightly, became — almost — kind. "We should be heading downstairs for the Sorting."

Severus jerked his head again, and walked beside the older man, silently wondering what he could do, what he could say, to convince Calista not to take Defence.

Perhaps there were other certification exams she could take, that might go some distance towards redeeming her academic record… but he knew, realistically, that it was a terrible thing for him to ask her to do do; there was no doubt that it would slim her career prospects considerably, especially since she was already not taking Transfiguration at N.E.W.T. level.

"You know, Severus," Dumbledore said, when they were only a couple of corridors away from the Great Hall, "My impression, when Calista was being kept safe by the Order, was that she and Lupin had developed something of a rapport. Perhaps even then, they each sensed that the other would bear the weight of judgment for circumstances beyond their control."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista slept restlessly, not necessarily due to a nightmare, but due to the pervading fear that she  _would_  have one. She would begin to drift to sleep, only to jerk awake, with an unwelcome vision painted on the inside of her eyelids - dark, heavy spots of blood on a hardwood floor, the blade of a knife, a tall hooded figure advancing.

Seventh year Prefects were tasked with distributing class timetables to the dormitories. Endria had told her that last year their timetables had been left in two stacks on a study table in the common room, divided between those timetables to be distributed to the girls' dorms and to the boys' dorms. When Calista judged it was late enough in the pre-dawn hours that the timetables might have arrived, she gave in to wakefulness and slipped out of bed. She was an expert by now at dressing quietly in the dark.

She expected to be the first person up, but she could see upon entering the common room that there was already a figure seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace. In the dim light, she barely managed to notice a nearby table that held two neatly divided stacks of paper, which she could only assume were the timetables.

She walked forward to collect them, and the figure rose, and turned. She realised it was her father, and she felt her stomach drop before she even had time to absorb the strained, worried expression on his face.

"I assumed you'd be the first one up," he said quietly, "I hope you managed to get some sleep, at least."

"Some," she agreed, tensely; she had drifted off a few times, though she didn't really know for how long. "Dad, why are you here? It can't be anything good. It never is."

He smiled, ruefully and humorlessly. "There's no putting anything past you."

He gestured to one of the chairs beside his, with one hand. She noticed he was holding a sheet of paper in his other hand.

"Is that a timetable?" she asked, squinting at it, as she took the indicated chair.

He settled at the edge of his chair, turning it slightly to face hers better, setting the paper facedown on his lap.

"It's yours," he said, "But I'm here to ask you to consider changing it."

"Why?" she asked, "Have you managed... are they willing to let me rejoining the N.E.W.T. Transfiguration class?"

"No, Calista, I'm afraid not. What I'm proposing is that you actually reduce your schedule."

"Why?" she asked, "I managed it last year, and I even had extra patrols, on top of all of your so-called 'elective studies'."

"I've decided to hold your Occlumency lessons on Sundays, to make it easier for you to visit Hogsmeade with your friends," he told her, "And I've pulled some strings for your patrols. You'll have Wednesday and Thursday evenings; no weekends."

"That's… suspiciously considerate of you," she said, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. "You're not asking me to drop one of my Independent Studies with Professor Flitwick, are you? I told you over the summer, I want to continue my Charms research,  _and_  I want to take the Advanced Magical Theory exam; I need both blocks."

"No, I'm not asking you to drop an Independent Study."

"What, then? I can tell by your face you think it's something I won't want to agree to."

He frowned, and brushed his fingers over the edge of the page in his lap; if he'd been anyone else, Calista would have thought he was fidgeting nervously.

"I've arranged it so that you'll be on the Astronomy Tower patrol on Thursday evenings, with your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Clearwater."

"Lovely, I've always wondered what it's like to be a third wheel."

"Your friend, Miss Lima," Severus pressed on, almost desperately, "I expect she wrote you that she's been made a Prefect this year? I've asked for her to be assigned to your dungeon patrol on Wednesdays."

"Why?" she asked, more sharply this time, "What are you asking me to drop? Ancient Runes? Charms? I won't, you know."

Severus sighed. "You don't make anything easy, do you?"

"Where do you suppose I learned that from? Oh — probably from the same person who taught me that deliberately evading the topic at hand should be regarded with abject suspicion."

"Calista," he pressed his hands flat over the paper, her timetable, and regarded her levelly, grimly. "I would like you to drop Defence Against the Dark Arts."

" _What?_ " It was as if he'd asked her to drop Potions; it was utterly absurd. "Drop  _Defence?_  Have you gone mad? Have you — have you been replaced by someone else? Are you — are you even really  _you_ , or has someone drunk a load of Polyjuice Potion to  _look_  like you?"

"You'll still learn Defence, of course," Severus said, voice uncharacteristically thin; it bordered so closely on pleading that it utterly unnerved her. She almost wondered if she'd hit on the truth somehow, if someone  _had_  Polyjuiced themselves into his image. "Proper Defence. I'll — I'll teach you any spell you want."

"Fiendfyre," she said, abruptly, even though she wasn't seriously considering the idea of dropping the class; she just wanted to gauge how desperately he wanted her to do it.

"Fine," he said grimly, and he clutched the edges of her timetable. "I'll make the adjustments — there is one thing, however, that you should know. You… won't be permitted to sit the N.E.W.T. exam. But there are other exams, certification exams…"

Calista blinked. "Erm." She opened her mouth. "I see you've lost your bloody fucking mind."

"Calista!" Severus growled, half-rising, "You will  _not_  address me in that manner! I had no idea you missed sorting flobberworms so sorely…"

"Sorry!" she hissed hurriedly, ducking her head, "I just — I had to make sure it  _was_  really you…"

He bared his teeth, but sat back down. "You're an insufferable brat," he snarled.

She breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. "It  _is_  you, then — which means you already know I'm not going to drop Defence. I can't even conceive of why you would  _ask_  me — oh."

She tilted her head, and regarded him shrewdly. "This is about the new Professor, isn't it? R— Professor Lupin? You acted like you knew him, yesterday; like you  _hated_  him."

"Hated is the wrong word," Severus said testily, "It implies the past tense."

"Why?" she asked, wrinkling her nose, "What did he do to you? He doesn't seem very… erm, well he doesn't seem particularly frightening."

"Why do you need a reason?" Severus snarled, leaning forward; his hands still clutched at the edges of her timetable, wrinkling it. "Beyond the fact that I'm your father, and I'm  _asking_  you, quite earnestly, to drop his class?"

"Dad? Do you think  _I've_  been Polyjuiced? Because, you know, the real Calista has never accepted 'because I'm your father' as a reason for anything."

"I can't… I can't tell you the reason," he finally said, strained. "Just — please believe me, that it is a good one. A sound one. I wouldn't ask if it weren't."

"Dad… I can see this is important to you," she managed, hearing the strain creep into her own voice, "But you know I can't — I  _have_  to take the Defence exam. I… got an Outstanding on my O.W.L. Nearly every internship I'm interested in requires a N.E.W.T. in Defence."

"I know, Calista. But I had to ask."

She drew in a breath. "You had to — ask? And then what? You're not going to just change my timetable anyway, without telling me, are you?"

"No," he said, "I'm not."

She lifted a brow, unconvinced. "You'd better not; I'm not certain if I trust that you won't."

There was a noise somewhere behind them; both of them looked over, to see Derek Logan shuffling into the common room, still dressed in his pajamas. He started mid-yawn, when he realised his Head of House was in the common room.

"Er — sorry, Professor," he mumbled, even though he hadn't done anything wrong, "Didn't know you were here. Just… just coming to grab the timetables."

"Not at all, Mr. Logan," Severus said, evenly, gesturing to the table that held the timetables. Only when he had gone with half of them, did he reluctantly hold Calista's out to her, wrinkled edges and all.

"I won't change your timetable," Severus said, miserably, "Because I  _can't_. You're of legal age; I can't sign for you any longer."

Calista blinked. "Oh. I guess I forgot about that aspect of it."

Severus' frown deepened. "That's the  _only_  aspect of it," he said, quickly. "I can't sign for you; but I'm still responsible for you. You're still a student. You still live in my home; you'll still obey by rules. You're still answer to me, in every regard but, evidently, timetables."

It was a strange feeling, a strange thing to consider — that turning seventeen hadn't  _just_  lifted the Trace, hadn't  _just_  freed her from Bellatrix's curse. It had freed her in many other ways, too, or it would once she graduated. She suppressed a shiver; the idea of being freed from the other things her father had mentioned — living in his home, obeying his rules — actually didn't sound very appealing to her, not when she'd spent half the night considering sneaking down to his flat to sleep in her childhood bedroom.

"Dad…," she said, quietly, "Who… who  _exactly_  do you think you're fooling, saying that?"

He snarled, and rose again. "Calista…"

She smirked sadly, and then — after throwing a glance over her shoulder to make sure Derek hadn't come back — she stood as well, and hugged him, quickly but fiercely.

"I'll  _always_  answer to you," she reminded him, "In — every regard."

"Except timetables, I suppose?"

"Yes," she said, nodding firmly, and extracting the sheet of paper from his hand. "Except timetables."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista's schedule actually was very good; not only had her father done everything he'd said, in arranging her patrols to be as favorable as possible, and moving her private lessons with him to Sundays, but somehow, miraculously, she was free for the entirety of both Fridays  _and_  Saturdays. Admittedly, the rest of her schedule was on the heavy side, but if you counted her Occlumency lessons, she'd  _never_  had two days a week completely free of classes, and definitely not in a row.

She didn't have the library patrol anymore, but since Gerald wouldn't be on it, having the route might only make her miss him more; besides, she had two days off a week now, if she wanted to spend time there.

She'd made it through an excruciating breakfast the next morning, gritting her teeth while Draco taunted Potter for fainting on the train, afraid that if she admonished him, he'd found out  _she_  had fainted, too; actually, considering that Hecate Rowle's twin brother had witnessed it, she supposed it was a miracle that the entire school  _hadn't_  already heard.

She made it through Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as well, but by lunchtime, she felt she couldn't wait any longer. Instead of sitting down at the House table to eat, she went to the library, armed with a sheet of parchment and a quill, and sat down at a table near the Restricted section — the one that she and Gerald had sat at, for most of their Chamber research the year before.

_Dear Gerald,_

_I knew I'd miss your being here at Hogwarts, but I couldn't have guessed how much. It's only my second day, and things are already awful._

_There was a dementor on the train, and the Headmaster says they'll be stationed at all of the entrance points to the castle grounds, until Sirius Black is caught. They're not like anything we've ever read; they're worse, a thousand times worse. My Patronus Charm failed, and honestly, I'm afraid to try again, in case it wasn't just a fluke._

_Orpheus Rowle has already made the connection that I'm related by blood to Sirius Black, so I suppose it's only a matter of time before the entire school remembers that I'm supposed to be evil._

_My father hates the new Defence professor so much that he asked me to drop the class; I won't, of course, and he knew it, but the last time he wanted me kept out of a class was when Quirrell tried to cast an Exploding Curse on me, so naturally I'm concerned._

_The strange thing is, I remember him — the new professor, that is. I met him when I was small. I don't remember very much, but none of what I remember explains the way my father reacted to seeing him. I thought he seemed kind, or as kind as I could really perceive anyone to be, back then. I suppose that's what's bothering me most of all - what if my memory is wrong? What if it's not the only memory that's wrong?_

Calista lifted her quill, and frowned. She didn't think Gerald could possibly understand how much the notion of her memories being invalid truly shook her; after all, he didn't know that she had had her memory modified. He didn't know anything about the psychic attack she'd endured from her, years ago; didn't know how Bellatrix had tried to tear her mind apart, had warped and twisted the very fabric of her mind…

She left the line in, anyway. Even if he couldn't truly understand, she thought he'd try to reassure her; and even if she couldn't quite believe whatever he decided to say, since he  _didn't_  understand, she thought it might feel good to have him try.

She squinted down the length of the library, at the clock; it was nearly time for her to go to the Charms classroom, in case anyone needed tutoring. It was doubtful, on the first day of classes, but she wanted to post her letter before she went, anyway. The sooner she sent it, the sooner he could write back.

She frowned back down at the parchment, and added another paragraph:

_I realise I've written all of this, and I haven't even asked how you're doing, but I do want to know. Have you decided which internship to accept, yet? I know you were torn between St. Mungo's and the researcher spot for the Department of Mysteries. I think you'd be brilliant at either one, of course, but admittedly, I do think the latter would suit you better. I think it would provide more of an intellectual challenge; I'm hoping I'll qualify for the same internship, truth be told, but without a N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration I suppose it's quite a long shot._

_I can hardly wait for the Hogsmeade schedule to be posted. I know the first weekend's always at Halloween, but I keep hoping they'll have one sooner, this year. I miss you._

_Yours,_

_Calista_

She rolled the parchment up, and sealed it. She knew the letter was a far cry from the sweet, romantic ones they'd exchanged over the summer, but she couldn't quite muster the right mood for that, not with everything she'd written to him about, and more besides, swirling through her mind like a tempest.

She checked the time again; she should have just enough time to make it to the Owlery before she had to be at Flitwick's classroom.

There were a few other students in the Owlery when she arrived, mostly younger ones presumably writing home to their parents. She had just released Lucerna through the narrow window and turned around when she realised that she knew one of them.

Gerald's younger brother, Terry, was tying a letter to a beautiful snowy owl that she'd never seen before; it was funny, she'd almost expected him to be using Uruz, since she knew he'd always often borrowed his brother's owl in the past, but of course Uruz was back in London, with Gerald.

"Hi, Terry," she said, managing to sound cheerful enough. "How's your timetable this year? Not too strenuous, I hope?"

Terry snorted, walking to the window and releasing the unfamiliar owl. "You sound like Gerry. Do they teach you to ask the younger students that in Prefect meetings, or something?"

Calista raised a brow. "Yes," she said, "Right after they teach us to say this: shouldn't you be in Herbology, already?"

Terry blinked. "How… how do you know that?"

"Third-year Herbology, Thursday afternoons, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. They don't change the timetables much, from year to year."

"Erm… I'm on the way to the hospital wing. Stomach ache."

He tried valiantly to look appropriately pained.

"On your way to the hospital wing from… where, exactly?"

Terry quirked a small, sly smile. "From the Owlery, obviously."

Calista bit the inside of her mouth, suppressing a snort of laughter.

"Fine," she said, waving her hand, "Go. To the hospital wing, or wherever it is you're  _actually_  going. Just so long as it's nowhere dangerous, or your brother would kill me."

It was Terry's turn to raise a brow, now. "I don't think Gerry would do that; then he'd have no one to write sappy love notes to."

Calista felt herself start to blush. "How do you know about that?"

"We share a room. I don't know which of us hates it more. Probably me; he's always trying to alphabetise all my things."

"I… see. Is that what you're doing now? Writing him and asking him not to?"

"Erm, no. I guess  _you'd_  find it hard to believe, but I don't feel the need to write to my brother on the second day of term. That's what you're here for, though, isn't it?"

"Erm. Maybe."

Terry nodded, as if he'd more or less expected this. "Too bad you've already mailed it," he mused, "I've got something you could have added, to the end."

"Oh? And what's that?"

" _I_ _l y a un Bombabouse du côté de Terry de la chambre. Amuses-toi bien_ à  _le trouver!_ "

_There's a dungbomb on Terry's side of the room. Have fun finding it!_

Calista rolled her eyes. "Very funny."

Terry smirked. "Thanks. I thought so. See you around, Calista."

"Mm. Hopefully not when you're supposed to be in class, next time."

"Yeah," Terry agreed, brightly. "Hopefully not."


	3. Chapter 3

Calista very quickly forgot to be cross with her cousin for mocking students that had been frightened by the dementors. On Thursday evening, she received word that he'd been injured, in his Care of Magical Creatures class, and was confined to the hospital wing.

She raced to the hospital wing as soon as she heard, skipping dinner and letting Penny know that she might be late for her evening patrol.

Draco was lying back when she arrived, surrounded by pillows. When he saw that she had come to visit, he grimaced bravely, looking pained, though his colour appeared healthy, his eyes bright.

"Draco, what happened? Are you badly hurt?"

"That wretched beast attacked me," Draco whined, "For no reason at all; obviously, it's completely unstable, just like its master."

"What sort of beast  _was_  it?"

"A hippogriff; an ugly, nasty, brute of one."

Calista blinked. "I hope you didn't tell  _it_  that. Hippogriffs don't like being insulted."

"Well, of course I didn't," Draco said, indignantly, "Do I look like an idiot?"

"Draco, I didn't mean…" she sighed. "What have they done for you? You shouldn't still be in so much pain."

"Well, I am," Draco said, a bit sulkily. "Madam Pomfrey did what she could, I suppose, but it's still — agony, really."

Calista tilted her head, frowning with concern. "How bad was the injury? Which spells did she use? If there was any sort of fracture, a basic healing spell won't be enough, it will need to be splinted."

"She, erm, did her best to close up the wound," Draco said, "It's all bandaged up now - it  _looks_  much better, but it's just the  _pain_."

Her frown deepened. "A hippogriff's not a Dark creature, though. Once you've been seen to by a healer, there shouldn't be any lingering pain." She ought to know; she'd spent nearly all of last year researching Dark creatures. She thought she might be able to diagnose an injury from any of a hundred of them, at this point.

"Oh, erm," Draco said, and he frowned as well. "I suppose — you know, that oaf Hagrid likes to fool around with all sorts of foul things. I wouldn't be surprised if that beast of his is some sort of dangerous crossbreed."

"Have you reported your suspicions to anyone?" she asked, "Or told Madam Pomfrey? Perhaps she can try a different spell…"

"Oh, I'm letting Father handle all of that," Draco said, hastily. "I've written him already — he knows all of the governors of course…"

Neither of them decided to mention that, until last year, he had been one of them. No one had ever told Calista precisely why he wasn't, and she was frankly afraid to ask.

Calista stepped closer to the bed, and glanced around; she didn't think Madam Pomfrey would be particularly keen on what she was about to suggest.

"Do you… would you like me to take a look at it?" she offered, "I'm quite good with healing spells. There's a very powerful one that Dad taught me last year. It's a bit of an obscure one; she might not have tried it yet."

Actually, based on what her father had told her when she'd been learning it, and how long it had  _taken_  her to learn it, she suspected that it was possible that the Hogwarts mediwitch might not even know it; her father had said that due to its difficulty, it wasn't part of the standard medical certification.

Draco was blinking at her, almost in a panic. "Erm — no, no, I don't think you should look at it," he stammered, "I mean, they might need evidence. If there's… you know, an investigation. I'm sure that's what Father would want."

Calista narrowed her eyes, examining his expression carefully. He wasn't as easy of a read as Marcus had always been, but even without casting  _Legilimens_ , she was beginning to strongly suspect he was hiding something.

"Draco…"

"You should go," Draco drawled loudly, settling deeper into his pillows. "The healing process — I'm getting very tired, all of a sudden."

As if he'd summoned her, Madam Pomfrey promptly appeared, and ushered Calista firmly out.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista was immediately glad for having Fridays and Saturdays off. In addition to setting them a quiz on the first day of class, Professor Vector had also assigned hours worth of homework, which Calista was able to finish on Friday thanks to her free periods, despite being distracted by her own troubles, and lingering concern for her cousin - even if she  _did_  suspect he was lying about the extent of his injuries, or how he'd gotten them.

On Saturday, she received a reply back from Gerald. She practically tore it open, immediately ignoring her breakfast as well as Sofia's cheerful chatter beside her. She saw at once that he had followed her lead, and written his reply, save for his nickname for her in the salutation, entirely in plain English. Instinctively, she hunched over it, blocking it from view from any curious eyes, in case he'd written anything embarrassing  _besides_ the salutation.

_Mon beau colibri,_

_I can't tell you how sorry I am that you had to face a dementor. I can't believe they'd allow them on the train, or near the school. I suppose it must be by Ministry order, as I can't imagine Professor Dumbledore inviting those horrid creatures to skulk around the grounds of the castle. I'm going to see if I can find out who I need to write to in order to register my protest; I don't know if it will do any good, but I feel that I should try. I won't mention you specifically, of course; I imagine you'd hate that._

_I know you're worried about your Patronus Charm, but there is a wealth of anecdotal evidence suggesting that it's much more challenging to cast in the presence of a dementor. My advice is that you keep practicing, until it's second nature, especially if those wretched creatures intend on staying around the castle. I wish I could be there to practise with you, but since I can't, imagine I am, if it will help, and I'll do the same. I think I'll imagine that I kiss you each time you manage the spell… and again if you don't, for encouragement._

Calista felt her cheeks heating up; she hunched closer over the letter.

_I'm not sure which is more shocking to me - the dementors at the castle, or the fact that your father asked you to drop Defence. I've always gotten the impression that it's a class he'd want you to take even if you did wish to drop it. I suppose he must have a good reason for asking, but I must confess I'm personally glad you refused._

_Perhaps your father's concerns can be valid without the need to question the validity of your own memories. After all, very few people are entirely good or entirely evil, wouldn't you agree? It's certainly possible that this new professor has done something unsavory in his past, but still managed to be kind to a frightened child. I'd like to think that if his presence at the castle truly posed a danger, the Headmaster wouldn't allow it; but then, he is allowing the dementors, so perhaps I'm too optimistic._

_As for Orpheus Rowle, or anyone else who gives you a hard time, don't forget you're a Prefect. I realise he is one as well, but I strongly suspect that if a dispute over a detention with the Head of House came down to your word against his, you'd be believed. You can try talking to Penny or Percy, too. If Rowle's transgressions amount to an abuse of power, his Prefect badge can be revoked. I think Endria was very close to pushing for that last year, when there were several complaints against him._

_I haven't decided on my internship, yet. I'm still working a few things out. In the meantime, I've increased my hours at the bookstore, I'm working nearly every day._

_I miss you too. I'm glad you still want me to come and meet you in Hogsmeade. Please let me know when they announce the dates, and I'll put in right away for the days off work._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

Calista smiled a bit to herself; she was glad that she'd decided to write to him about everything, even the things she'd thought he might not be able to understand. He  _had_  still made her feel a little bit better, especially with his offer to write to someone regarding the dementors at the school. She suspected he was right, that his protest would fall on deaf ears, but — like kissing her hand, and incredibly corny notes written in French, petitioning something he saw as unfair was so distinctly  _Gerald_ that she couldn't help but feel warmed, anyway.

" _Calista_." She started guiltily, and realised that Sofia was trying to get her attention. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Erm - sorry, I guess I wasn't…" she murmured. She folded the letter, keeping it in her hand, and looked at Sofia. Her friend's normally cheerful expression was slightly exasperated.

"Who's that from, anyway?" Sofia asked, tilting her chin towards the letter. "Is it that skinny Ravenclaw, the one that was Head Boy last year, what's his name — Boot?"

Calista pressed her lips together, suppressing a small smile, and nodded.

Sofia wrinkled her nose delicately. "You're still dating him, then?"

"Yes, of course."

Sofia's brow furrowed, and her nose wrinkled a little more. "Why? I mean… he's not at Hogwarts anymore."

"Because I… like him? That's generally the reason you date someone, you know. Also, as far as I know, people do still exist after they graduate."

"Oh. I guess I just thought…well, nevermind. As I was saying, while you were ignoring me — we should go over our patrol route for Wednesday. And I have a million questions, about precisely  _how_  it works, assigning detentions — Do they serve them with  _their_  Head of House, or with yours? And do you just pass their name on to their Head of House, or do you tell them a specific time? If it  _is_  a specific time, how do you know when the Heads of House are free?"

Calista blinked. "Okay, wow. You  _do_  have a lot of questions. Percy should have covered all of that in his speech, on the train… weren't you listening?"

Sofia snorted delicately. "No. Were you?"

Calista shrugged, sheepishly. "I guess I wasn't, not really. Anyway, all Prefect-assigned detentions are served with the student's Head of House. You'll get a timetable at the monthly Prefect meeting that shows when you can assign detentions for each of them."

"Oh. It's too bad…" Sofia grinned, "It's too bad we can't make them  _all_  go to our Head for detentions, isn't it? There's a couple of Gryffindors in my Potions class I'd  _love_  to send to Professor Snape… mind you, he gives them detention often enough on his own."

"Believe me," Calista said, "McGonagall's detentions aren't exactly a picnic, either. And if you're talking about my friend Percy's brothers, the twins… he  _definitely_ sends them to her on a regular basis."

"Oh, yes, I mean them," Sofia confirmed, pushing the remains of her breakfast plate aside. "They're  _nightmares_ , the two of them. Mind you, Eva's not much better."

Calista smirked. "Sure she is," she pointed out, "Eva's better at not being c _aught_."

"Yes, well, only because I cover for her all the time. I told her I can't, anymore, you know. I plan on taking my Prefect duties  _very_   _seriously_. My mother was Head Girl, and I want to be as well."

"They don't choose Slytherins very often," Calista reminded her, "Endria was the first in twenty years."

"Well, really," Sofia frowned, "I think choosing a Slytherin Head Girl more often is the  _least_  they can do, if they're going to keep handing Gryffindor the House Cup on the last day of term."

"Yeah, seriously." Calista frowned. "My Dad says it's because of Harry Potter, because he's Dumbledore's favourite student."

"It hardly takes a professor to point  _that_  out," Sofia groused, "What do you suppose he'll do this year to steal the House Cup away from us — catch Sirius Black?"

Calista tensed slightly at the mention of the infamous prisoner's name; but Sofia didn't say anything else, and certainly nothing about him being related to Calista. She exhaled, and folded Gerald's letter again carefully, slipping it into her pocket to re-read later.

"Probably," she agreed darkly, "Come on, let's go over the patrol route. I actually like to vary it slightly from week-to-week, so no one can learn the pattern and avoid us that way."

Sofia smiled, brightly. "Oh, that's very good. I'm writing that down, I want to do that for my other route, too."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

After giving his usual speech to his seventh-year N.E.W.T. class, Severus told them he would be coming to each of them in turn to get an idea of what they were considering, for their independent projects. Their homework for the first week, he told them, would be to write a proposal for what they wanted to make, the ingredients they would need to order, and any additional safety precautions they might need to take, based on their choice.

"Ah, and — " Severus said, and he looked at his daughter in particular, "Unfortunately, the Ministry reviews these requests as well, so if you're planning on submitting a proposal for a poison, I suggest make it sound like you're more interested in the antidote. If you're planning on submitting a proposal for Veritaserum, don't."

"Oh." Percy Weasley frowned, and put his hand up tentatively.

Severus' gaze flicked over the boy. "I haven't the faintest  _idea_ why the Ministry will allow me to teach you to brew any number of deadly poisons, and yet draws the line at a truth serum," he said, acidly. "So please, don't ask."

Weasley put his hand back down.

The students began flipping through their textbooks for ideas, except — naturally, Severus thought — Calista. He imagined she'd found whatever poison  _she_  was interested in brewing buried deep in some obscure text, possibly even one of his own — he suppressed a small smile at the thought, and began at the far end of the small group of students, leaving her for last.

His seventh year class was always small, due to his requirement that they score an 'O' in their O.W.L. and perform at the same level for their sixth year exams, and this year was no exception; besides his daughter and her friends, there were only three other students, all Slytherins, for a total of seven.

Miss Clearwater wanted to make a mandrake restorative draught, which surprised him; it was an extremely complex potion, and she'd never expressed an interest in it before… but then again, he could hardly blame her, after what she'd gone through last year. He decided to consider it, especially considering that Calista would be able to help her. He supposed he could always ask Poppy for her second years' mandrake crop, again. It was a pity that the potion only stayed good for a week or so, given that it took so long to make; it would have been nice to be able to keep Miss Clearwater's potion in his stores, if it came out well.

Miss Slater chose an obscure poison that wasn't in the text; there was no surprise there. Undoubtedly, she'd gotten it from the same book he was sure Calista's request would come from.

Mr. Weasley had evidently been banking on Veritaserum, so he had only muttered something about having to go through his books again for ideas.

Typically, the Slytherins almost all would request to work on poisons, but this year's class had a few exceptions: Miss Yaxley wanted to craft a blood-replenishing potion, and Mr. Spratt had  _also_  requested to work on a mandrake draught. That had surprised him even more than Miss Clearwater's request had done; he had slightly less faith in the boy's ability than he did in Miss Clearwater's, but perhaps if they would be willing to work together...

"All right," Severus asked drily, as he drew level with her workstation at last, "Which poison have you chosen, and how illegal is it?"

"I don't want to work on a poison," she said, and Severus nearly blinked in surprise. "I was thinking about the mandrake draught, from last year…"

"You wish to work with your classmates, instead? Miss Clearwater and Mr. Spratt?" He supposed there was no reason she couldn't make it again, perhaps without as much guidance from him this time, if that was what she wanted to do. Certainly, it would put him more at ease about having Miss Clearwater and Mr. Spratt work on it, since there were so many ways it could accidentally go wrong.

She shook her head. "I was thinking… what if we hadn't been able to administer the potion right away? It's no good after a week, and we would have had to start all over. I want to do a research project, to see if there might be a way to give unstable potions a longer shelf life."

Severus' brows shot up. He hadn't expected this; not because it was much more of a project than he thought she realised — there were wizards working on such things on a potion-by-potion basis for a full-time job, in the Ministry — but also because she had  _never_  shown an interest in innovating, in his subject.

She was very  _good_  at it, to be sure, but she'd always followed the recipes, or his instructions, precisely, and had never shown any proclivity for experimentation; an observation he'd often noted wryly when Flitwick regaled him with descriptions of her creativity within  _his_  subject.

"You'll have to choose one potion to focus on," he said, considering. "Ideally, one that isn't terribly expensive or time-consuming to brew, so that you can afford a higher number of failed attempts."

The perfect idea struck him, suddenly. He allowed a small smile. "Work with Miss Yaxley," he said, "Try to find a way to stabilise her blood-replenishing potion."

It had a two-week preparation period, which meant they could go through many attempts throughout the year, and it saved Miss Yaxley having to find something else to work on, after she completed it successfully.

He straightened, and looked over the heads of several students. "Miss Yaxley, I presume that is amenable to you, as well?"

Miss Yaxley nodded, and then her gaze shifted from him to Calista. He thought he detected a small, hopeful smile.

"Yes sir, that's — fine with me," Miss Yaxley said, quietly. "If it's fine with Calista, of course."

Severus' gaze swept back to his daughter. "That is the project you wish to work on, yes?"

She frowned, slightly; what Emily had asked and what he had asked were not precisely the same question, and it didn't escape her notice.

"I was thinking of the mandrake draught…" she said again, doubtfully. "I could work with Penny…"

"Yes, you can work with Miss Clearwater, and with Mr. Spratt on the mandrake draught," Severus agreed, mouth quirking slightly. "However, your stabilisation experiment — no, with the considerations of time and cost, I must insist that you work with Miss Yaxley on that."

Calista scowled, and opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask why she was suddenly working on  _two_  projects, now.

Severus stepped back, and deliberately looked away from her, surveying the class in general. "I suggest you all make the most of the light homework, as it's the last week you'll be able to - you'll be submitting fifteen inches of parchment a week on your progress from next week forward."

"I'm not writing thirty," Calista snarked quietly, under her breath.

Severus ignored her. He had no intention of requiring her to write double the essays, of course, but he supposed he might as well get used to her being cross with him. He'd decided something, earlier that day, about her private lessons with him, and he had the distinct impression that she was not going to be pleased with it.

It had occurred to him when he'd been looking at a copy of her timetable, over breakfast. His eyes had lingered on the block she had that very day, later in the afternoon, and he'd taken a position from which he would be immovable.

If she was going to insist on taking the werewolf's class, then it was about time he made good on what he'd always said he would do: he was going to take a hard line, and teach her  _proper_  defence. And that meant, of course, that she had to practise on a proper target.

He could handle her displeasure, her anger, and even — to some degree — her anguish. He just hoped that, after she learned what he had in mind, she wouldn't outright hate him.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had reason to dislike Gilderoy Lockhart all over again the instant that she walked into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and the only seat left was in the very front row, next to Percy, who had been kind enough to save it for her.

It wasn't that she didn't want to sit next to Percy; it was that, thanks to Lockhart's idiotic policy of allowing  _all_  of the fifth years who had achieved even the minimum passing score on their O.W.L. to continue to the N.E.W.T. classes, there were still too many students to combine to a single seventh year class like all the rest of them.

She had looked forward, since her and Amelia had first become friends, to sharing the same Defence class and working on the homework together, but instead, she had class with Gryffindors and her fellow Slytherins, and Amelia and Penny were in the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff class on Wednesdays.

She didn't need long to remember  _why_  that was a bad thing; she could already hear Olivia Avril tittering with her cronies from the back row, and since Calista's only ally in class was fussy, rule-obsessed Percy, that meant that if Olivia started any trouble, Calista was squarely on her own.

Professor Lupin entered just as the bell signalling the start of class rang; Calista thought he looked a bit healthier, and a bit less tired, than the last time she'd seen him, but she couldn't be certain that her last memory had been accurate, since she'd been convinced for half of their meeting that he was a hallucination brought on by the dementor.

She peered at him closely, trying to imagine why her father might hate him so much that he'd ask her to drop one of her most critical — and one of her  _favourite_ — subjects.

Lupin set his tatty briefcase on top of the desk, and faced the class, surveying them. For a second, his gaze met Calista's, and she looked hastily down at her book, not wanting to be caught examining him.

"You won't need your books today," Lupin said, and though the first few rows quieted down to hear him, there was still tittering and whispering from the back of the classroom, where every Slytherin but Calista was congregated. "In fact, there's no need to carry them to class at all, from this point onward. You'll only need them for homework, and for readings in between classes."

This had managed to catch  _some_  of the Slytherins' attention, evidently. Only a few whispers still rustled about the back of the classroom.

"We have an unusually large class, for seventh year," Lupin continued, "And unfortunately, I'm afraid most of you are quite far behind where you should be, at the N.E.W.T. level. It's not your fault, of course. A series of teachers, of varying degrees of aptitude…"

Calista pressed her lips together, but was surprised enough that a tiny snort of laughter still escaped; Lupin glanced down at her, and she looked hastily to Percy, who could be relied upon to look sufficiently solemn - except  _he_  had puffed up self-importantly and was nodding a firm agreement, and that almost made her laugh harder.

Lupin paused, and glanced down at them. His expression, thankfully, appeared inquisitive rather than irritated.

"Sorry," Calista murmured, "We were just — erm, agreeing with you."

Percy drew in a breath, and nodded emphatically. She knew that Lockhart's brand of self-absorbed non-teaching had been quite a sore point for him last year. She supposed it must have been even more frustrating for him than it had been for her; after all,  _she_  at least got private Defence lessons from her father. That was likely the reason she'd scored Outstanding on her O.W.L., while she knew that Percy had only scored Exceeds Expectations.

She could have sworn that Lupin's mouth flickered briefly into an amused smile, but if it did he covered it quickly.

"And I understand," he continued, as if there had been no interruption in his speech, "That a decision was made last year allowing all students with a passing O.W.L. score to continue to the N.E.W.T. level."

There was another interruption, this time a much more obnoxious one; a loud, self-satisfied  _humphing_  from the back of the classroom. Calista didn't need to turn around to know that it was Olivia Avril.

Lupin's eyes crossed the back row, and he continued on, again ignoring the interruption. "The Ministry's recommendation to continue to N.E.W.T. level for all subjects is a minimum score in the 'Exceeds Expectations' range, but of course the final decision is left up to the professor."

Lupin had paused again, and was fixed on a spot in the back. He nodded. "Yes, Olivia?"

Calista glanced back; Olivia's hand had shot into the air, but now that she had the attention of the professor and the rest of the class, she took her time lowering it, and adjusting her posture primly.

"I prefer being addressed formally," she sniffed, "It's  _Miss Avril_ , please."

"Of course, if that's your preference," Lupin said agreeably. It  _was_  unusual for a professor to address the students by first name, though Flitwick did sometimes do so in his Independent Study classes and during tutoring blocks. Either way, Calista thought it was better than being called 'Miss Snipe', as Lockhart had done for half the prior year.

"Yes, well, anyway,  _Professor,_ " Olivia continued, in arch tones, "You can't be planning on changing that policy now; we've already spent all of last year preparing for the N.E.W.T. exams, and  _my_  mother, for one, will be very unhappy if you expect me to accept all of that as wasted time."

A few other students began murmuring agreements. Lupin held his hand up for silence, which gradually came.

"Thank you for sharing your concerns, Miss Avril. As I was saying, the policy has already been decided by my predecessor, and I have no intention of changing it now; but I do feel it is my duty to advise all of you that this year will be quite challenging. We have a good deal of material to catch up on. I feel it's only fair to inform you that your class unfortunately performed well below average on your O.W.L. exams. Only two students in your year achieved an 'Outstanding'. I'm told there were only three in the year before you, and I have to tell you, this is a downward trend; historically, Hogwarts has averaged five or six 'O's in Defence per academic year."

Calista blinked; she hadn't realised there had only been  _two_  'O's in her year; that meant that she and Amelia were the only ones. She supposed it made sense; Penny and Percy were two of the best students in her year, and both of them had earned an 'E'. She couldn't really imagine who might have outscored them, besides her and Amelia, who still researched curses together for amusement.

"That doesn't mean, of course, that you can't catch up and perform quite well on the N.E.W.T. exams. We will all need to work very hard this year. I plan on setting special office hours for your year, and I'm available to help outside of those if you need it, as well."

Percy was nodding approvingly now. Lupin broke his gaze away from the class briefly, and turned back to his briefcase. He withdrew a sheet of parchment, which held what looked to be a list of some sort; it was fairly long.

"Your last professor did not leave much in the way of academic records, and I understand your class did not have exams last year, complicating matters even further. However, based on what was left behind detailing previous curriculums, I've come up with a list of topics we need to focus on."

His gaze swept over the room again.

"There is a particular spell that seems to have been left off the curriculum recently, although it was taught in the seventh year when I was a student. It's a very powerful, very useful defensive charm, requiring a high level of focus and discipline to cast. It's also, I'm afraid,  _particularly_  useful given the current — ah, situation, which is why I think we'll start with it, rather than waiting until later in the year. Can anyone guess which Charm I'm describing?"

Hands around Calista shot up; Percy's was practically stretched to the ceiling.

"Yes, Percy?"

Calista wondered how he'd managed to learn everyone's name already; usually, it took the professors a couple of classes. Lockhart hadn't even bothered to learn half of their names.

"The Patronus Charm, sir," Percy said, promptly. "I've always  _said_  we should be learning it."

Lupin nodded. "Very good." He returned his focus to the class at large. "The Patronus Charm is the best defence against dementors, because it is fueled by the very opposite of the things they feed on. Simply put, a Patronus is conjured from joy, from a single happy memory, while a dementor feeds on fear and despair."

Calista frowned; she supposed Professor Lupin hadn't read the Sparkman book, then, the one that suggested that for some people, there was an alternative to concentrating on a 'single happy memory'... but then, she was hardly going to say so in front of the whole class, when she wasn't even certain if her Patronus  _worked_  anymore. She decided to write about it for her homework essay, instead — without betraying, of course, that she was an Occlumens.

"Since you  _are_  in seventh year," Lupin continued, "I suppose I'll ask - is there anyone in this class who has attempted the Patronus Charm before?"

Calista raised her hand; so did a few other students she could see, Percy included.

"Has anyone been successful? I'd like the class to see a demonstration, if possible."

Hands began wavering; after a moment, most went down entirely. Only Percy's and Emily Yaxley's stayed uncertainly in the air.

"I get — erm, sort of a silvery cloud," Emily said, uncertainly. Percy nodded vigorously, indicating the same.

Lupin smiled encouragingly, and nodded, rather as if he'd been expecting this. "A corporeal Patronus is the most powerful, and also the most difficult form of this charm," he said, "It's very advanced magic, and it takes even the most skilled witches and wizards some time to master. Even a non-corporeal form, as you've described, Emily, is an admirable feat. Not everyone is capable of producing a fully corporeal Patronus, but my hope is that several of you will manage it before the academic year is finished."

Percy's hand lifted higher into the air again, and Lupin nodded to him, a second time.

"Percy?"

"Calista can produce a corporeal Patronus," Percy said, self-importantly, as if her success reflected well on him; but then, she and Gerald had been the ones to encourage the rest of their friends to try. "I've seen it."

Lupin's gaze shifted to Calista now, with a very keen interest. "Is that so, Calista?"

She fought to keep her expression neutral, and nodded.

"Yes. I can — I mean, I have. But I don't… I don't want to demonstrate…"

She hadn't dared to try, since it had failed her in front of the dementor; and damn it, Percy had  _witnessed_  that, and she thought he ought to have known better than to announce she could do it, now. The only thing that she thought could possibly be worse than failing at it was doing so in front of the entire class.

To her relief, Lupin flashed her a small smile that she read to be understanding; he nodded, and then he returned to addressing the rest of the class.

"The eventual form a Patronus takes is unique to the caster and to the memory it is based on; in some cases, it can be quite personal. Interestingly, once the charm has been mastered, it is possible to deliberately produce a non-corporeal Patronus at or near full strength, as I'll demonstrate..."

Lupin drew his wand, and aimed it well over all of their heads.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," he said, and a huge, silvery mass burst out of the tip of his wand; although its form was indistinct, it was nothing like the little wispy clouds that she'd produced when she'd first been practicing, or like some of her friends could produce now.

Calista squinted; for a second, she thought she'd seen the shapes of some kind of paws at the bottom of the form, but then the dense cloud shifted, and she couldn't tell anymore.

After several seconds, Lupin waved his wand again, clearing the form away.

"The incantation, of course, is simple," Lupin said, "As is the wrist movement - a simple broad flourish, like this —"

He demonstrated, this time without the incantation.

"The difficulty in this charm lies in the focus required. You will need to concentrate very hard on a powerfully happy memory. The strength of your Patronus corresponds to the strength of the memory, so you should try and choose a significant one, as well as one that you can remember clearly. I'll give you a few moments to think of one, and then I'll ask you all to take your wands out and give it a try."

Calista felt a prick of panic; what if she tried and failed? Even if, by some miracle, she managed to escape the notice of her classmates, the professor was sure to notice. She had a sudden, horrifying flashback to her first year, when her spell had failed in front of Professor McGonagall, and she'd been accused of cheating on her homework.

"Erm, Professor…" she started, quietly, as soon as the rest of the class had started chattering among themselves, discussing the incantation or perhaps comparing memories.

She wasn't sure what she was going to say; should she admit that she wasn't certain, yet, if she even  _could_  cast the spell anymore, or should she say she felt ill, and ask to be excused…?

She didn't need to say anything, as it turned out; as soon as she'd caught the professor's attention, he'd smiled at her — she was certain, this time, that it  _was_  understanding.

"You needn't produce yours in front of the class, if you don't want to," he told her quietly, "I can give you some pointers, if you like, on concealing its form; you can come see me during my office hours."

"Oh," Calista said, relieved; she decided not to correct him, if he chose to believe that it was reluctance to reveal her Patronus' form that was making her anxious. "I — yes, maybe I'll do that," she finished, vaguely.

Since she wasn't required to practise the charm with everyone else, she spent most of the class surreptitiously watching her professor, while pretending to observe the efforts of her friends.

He walked between the rows of desks, offering pointers on the wand movement and encouragement to concentrate; he was very patient, and no one except Olivia and a few of her friends in the back row seemed to have anything but respect for him. Calista had to admit that, even if he might not know about the alternate Patronus methods she'd read about, he did seem to know a lot more than any of her previous professors had.

It was hard to imagine why her father disliked this man so much; if he had a side that could inspire such loathing, Calista privately thought he was hiding it very well.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Immediately after her Defence class, Calista went to her dormitory room and pretended to be absorbed in one of her textbooks. Once her roommates had come in and dropped their things off for dinner, she slid off her bed and withdrew her wand.

" _Evigilo_ ," she muttered, aiming a spell at the door; it was a useful little charm that would alert her with a soft warning tone if anyone was approaching it from the other side.

She straightened her back, and drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the familiar swirl of memory, drawing from within the familiar pulse of strength…

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," she whispered, and a silvery flash lit up the room… a wispy, cloudy form hung in the air in front of her, indistinct and, she knew with a sinking feeling, utterly useless for warding off dementors.

Fighting a rising tide of panic, she drew in another breath, and tried again, this time screwing her eyes shut tight and  _really_  concentrating, as hard as she'd done the very first time she'd successfully cast, even though she hadn't needed to expel nearly the same amount of effort in subsequent casts.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she said, trying to inject as much power into the charm as she could. There was another flash, that turned the inside of her eyelids briefly red. She opened her eyes to the same formless, spectral cloud of silver.

"Oh, no," she murmured, "Something's gone horribly wrong…"

The worst part was that she had a feeling she knew precisely what that something was; because when she'd seen the flash of silver in the dim room, she'd glimpsed two other flashes of silver, in her mind — the threatening flash of the edge of a blade, and the deceptively pretty, milky form of a memory, swirling around in a glass vial.

The panic that had started to rise a moment ago was filling her up now, rising past her gut and her heart, and nearing her throat, so that it felt like she might choke.

 _How_  could she have lost her ability to produce a Patronus charm  _now_ , when she needed it most? There were dementors stationed at all of the entrances and exits of the castle grounds - how could she go to Hogsmeade without passing one? Or what if they boarded the train again, when she went home for Christmas break, or even entered the castle proper?

She tried, again and again, until a soft chime from the direction of the door let her know that someone was coming; hastily, she lifted the Alerting Charm, and slipped her wand back into her pocket, just as the door opened.

Calista tensed, in case it was Portia or Olivia, who were both fond of seeing just how much they could instigate her before she'd take house points away, but it was only Emily who slipped in, and smiled uncertainly.

"Hi, Emily," Calista said, politely; though the two of them were not exactly friends anymore, they did have a slightly uneasy alliance, particularly whenever their other roommates weren't around. Emily had never been  _quite_  willing to step out of Olivia's shadow, but she had never really engaged in any of Olivia's teasing, either.

"Hi, Calista," Emily replied, and then: "It will be… erm, sort of fun working together in Potions class, don't you think?"

"Oh." Calista nodded, taking a steadying breath, and pushing her worry about her failed Patronus Charm aside; it wasn't easy, but she managed it. "Yes, I expect it will be… interesting. I know the current practise is to keep their blood-replenishing potions in a charmed icebox, so they stay cold, but even then you get perhaps two months of shelf-life at best."

Emily nodded, enthusiastically. "And of course, the potency, when it's been chilled — it's not quite the same."

Calista blinked. "Yes, exactly." She had forgotten that Emily had always been quite good in Potions class; but then, she supposed she  _had_  to be, because her father wouldn't let anyone in his N.E.W.T. class who had not scored an 'O' on their Potions O.W.L.

"You know, secretly," Emily confessed, with a small, sly smile, as if she'd just had the same thought as Calista, "I'm — a bit glad Portia and Olivia didn't make it to the N.E.W.T. class. I was getting really sick of fixing Olivia's potions for her."

Calista opened her mouth, with the intention of agreeing, but then the doorknob was turning again, and Olivia herself flounced in, with Portia at her heels.

"Emily, you'll  _never_ believe what that little b — oh, speak of the devil, it's  _you,_ " Olivia's expression twisted unpleasantly when she caught sight of Calista. "Well, it's no wonder you're trying to hide, I suppose — can't face what you've done, can you?"

For a brief, panicked moment, Calista thought Olivia had somehow found out about her failed Patronus… but that didn't make any sense, not with what the other girl had said.

"I mean, really, I guess it's no surprise, is it?" Portia sniffed, "Just what you'd expect from an evil little bitch like  _Snapelet_ , isn't it?"

Calista's panic intensified; no, it wasn't her Patronus charm… Her roommates must have put it together, possibly with help from that blasted sod Rowle on the train, that she was a relative of the escaped Azkaban prisoner…

With effort, she kept her expression clear; she knew by now that letting Olivia and Portia see they'd gotten to her would only make things a hundred times worse. She remembered Gerald's advice, from his letter, and decided that this would be the year she'd actually make good on all of the times she'd threatened Olivia and Portia with docking points, even if it  _did_  mean taking them from her own House.

"I see you've both forgotten again which one of us is a Prefect," she said, impressing even herself with how clear and even she managed to make her voice sound, "I hope you enjoyed calling me a bitch, Portia, because it's just cost you five House points."

"Oh, yes, how  _very rich_ ," Olivia snapped, the pitch of her voice rising, "Go on and take more points, why don't you — after all, I suppose you haven't well and truly sabotaged your own House enough until you've cost us the House Cup too, have you?"

Calista blinked, and tried not to let on that she had no idea what Olivia was talking about; whatever it was, it suddenly didn't sound very much like it was about Sirius Black.

"I'm not the one sabotaging my own House, Avril," Calista shot back, "I guess it's escaped your notice that it's  _always_  you starting things with me; not the other way around."

She glanced at Emily, who had retreated uncertainly to stand close to Olivia, and tried to suppress the old flicker of annoyance that was threatening to erupt into something more; there was no use. Emily was never going to change.

"Oh, clever plan," Olivia said, scathingly, "Unnecessary, though; there's no professor around to buy your innocent, good-girl act."

Calista snorted. "Okay, now whatever it is you're on about, you're definitely not talking about me."

" _Whatever it is_ ," Olivia imitated, spots of colour appearing in her cheeks, "Oh, I  _hate_  you! At least have the bloody courage to  _admit_ when you screw us all over, will you? Or rather — when you get your  _father_  to do it for you."

"I really don't know —" Calista began, but Olivia was on a tirade; she continued, raising her voice over Calista's.

"The worst part of it all is," the other girl railed, "That for  _some completely mental reason_ , he actually really liked you!"

"Of course my dad likes me, you idiot," Calista retorted, rapidly losing the last shreds of her patience; she had real, serious problems right now; she didn't have time for Olivia's rubbish.

"Not your  _father_ , you  _imbecile_ ," Olivia snapped, "Flint, Marcus Flint! You ruined —"

"Seriously?" Calista's eyebrows shot up, as she cut in, disbelieving. "I broke up with him almost a  _year_ ago, if you're still jealous now, your quarrel is with Hecate Rowle, not with me —"

" _I_  —  _have — never — been — jealous — of — YOU_!" Olivia howled, and in an instant, she had drawn her wand, fingers gripped tightly around it; Calista had hers out just as fast, heart pounding.

"I wouldn't," Calista said quietly, sounding much calmer than she felt, "We both know who will win, if it comes down to a duel."

"Do we?" Olivia hissed, "It seems to me we've never properly tested that theory."

Portia had drawn her wand too, although she was still hiding halfway behind Olivia.

"Calista, Olivia,  _please_ ," Emily cried out, "Both of you, stop — can't we just — I mean, whatever this is, it's not worth getting in trouble… she  _is_  a Prefect, Olivia..."

"You're right, Emily," Olivia said; her shoulders were heaving. She started to lower her wand, but there was something in her posture, in the way her eyes were still narrowed dangerously that had Calista keeping her wand level, still trained on the other girl. " _She's_  not worth getting in troub—  _Reformabattus Rattus!_ "

At the last second, she lunged forward, aiming a spell at Calista's head, but Calista was ready, and her reflexes had been honed by years of defence lessons with her father, and she was faster.

" _Protego!_ " she cast, and then, immediately afterwards, " _Expelliarmus!_ ". Severus had long drilled it into her that she should never leave her opponent holding their wand.

Perhaps it was a sign that Gerald had been on her mind a lot lately that she went for his favourite spell; she tried to follow his advice, and aim her Shield Charm for the tip of Olivia's wand, but despite his pointers, she didn't yet have his accuracy. The spell deflected over Olivia's shoulder instead, and the jet of yellow light hit Portia, standing behind her, just as Calista caught Olivia's wand in her own hand.

" _What did you do?!_ " Olivia screeched, but Calista ignored her; her eyes were focused on the small, wriggling form that scurried out from behind her.

Where Portia had stood seconds ago, there was only a large, ugly black rat. It started to run, towards one of the beds.

" _Immobulus!_ " Calista cast a freezing charm on rat-Portia before she had a chance to hide away under the bed. Emily and Olivia were both yelling now; Olivia jumped up  _onto_  her bed, pointing at Portia in horror.

"Calm down!" Calistas said, sharply; it was a good thing that her freezing charm was so reliably strong. She knew it was safe to lower her wand, and look around the room for something to carry her in. "We have to bring her to a professor, to reverse the transformation."

" _Look what you did!_ " Olivia squealed again. Calista rolled her eyes and grabbed Yellow's cage from beside her bed. Unceremoniously, she scooped Portia up and dumped her in the cage, latching the gate shut.

"That's Portia!" Olivia yelled, "You can't just put her  _in a cage_!"

"Right, well, at the moment," Calista said, lifting the cage and peering in. the freezing charm was still holding, but the rat-creature's eyes were wide with panic. "Portia's a rat — well, mostly, anyway — and she's pretty panicked, so unless you want to carry her and risk being bitten, this is how we have to get her to a teacher."

Up close, Calista could see that rat-Portia's face was actually a grotesque mixture of its parts. Her ears were still entirely human. It was definitely unsettling; she felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. She forced herself to remain calm, since she was clearly the only one capable of it at the moment.

Though Olivia and Emily insisted on coming, neither of them wanted to carry the cage, so it was left to Calista. She gripped both her own and Olivia's wand in her other hand.

The common room was crowded and noisy when they cut through; she thought she caught an angry hiss in her direction, but she didn't have time to pay any mind to it over Olivia's continued screeching yells.

She started in the direction of her father's office, and then someone grabbed roughly at the fabric of her robes, near her shoulder. She yelped and started, nearly dropping the cage; it was Olivia, and Calista shook herself fiercely loose, grip tightening automatically on the two wands.

" _No_ ," Olivia said, "We're  _not_  going to your father's office; you'll just get away with it!"

"I'm not the one that Transfigured her," Calista pointed out, "You are. Badly, I might add — an incomplete transformation, did you notice? I guess you're not as good as you think you are."

"That's because it wasn't me — it was  _you_ , and the fact that it's mucked up proves it! Now move, Snapelet — We're bringing her to the hospital wing! And give me back my wand!"

Calista rolled her eyes. She had half a mind to chuck the cage with Portia at Olivia's head and leave them to figure it out themselves; but she  _was_ , she reminded herself, a Prefect, and since she was already involved, she supposed it was her responsibility to get things sorted out.

"You'll get your wand back when we're in front of a teacher," Calista said, "I'm not an idiot, you'll just try and curse me when I'm busy with this cage."

She did humour Olivia in one regard and set her feet towards the hospital wing, mostly because she wasn't above relishing Portia spending a few extra minutes as a rat while they made their way there. Olivia and Emily followed on her heels, Olivia making wild accusations and using an awful lot of curse words, while Emily tried unsuccessfully to calm her down.

They never made it all the way to the hospital wing, however; about halfway there and drawn out, undoubtedly, by Olivia's incessant squealing and shrieking, Professor Lupin stepped out of an office, blocking their path; he eyes them, wary and alert.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and his gaze swept over each of them in turn, "Is someone hurt?"

He looked back to Calista, but it was Olivia who cut in first.

"Professor," she said, and there was no hint of her sarcastic tone from class now, "It's my friend, Portia —  _she_  Transfigured her, oh it's just  _awful_ , look what she did!"

" _I_  did nothing of the sort," Calista said, lifting the cage slightly, "But she  _is_  partially —"

" _Yes, you did!_ " Olivia's voice rose hysterically again, "It's because you hate Portia, because you're jealous that she's my best friend and —"

"Quiet, please," Lupin said, quietly, but nonetheless firmly, lighting the tip of his wand and peering into the cage. He straightened.

"Bring her in here," he said, and ushered them all back into the room he had come from. He gestured towards a desk against the wall, which was empty save for a small stack of papers at one end, and Calista set the cage down there.

She realised it wasn't  _his_  office, or at least it wasn't the one attached to the Defence classroom that all of their previous professors had used. This one was nearer the History of Magic classroom, and appeared to be mostly disused. A dusty bookshelf stood against one wall, with a few haphazard stacks of books, and Lupin's briefcase was leaned up against the wall in the corner. Other than that, and the desk, it was bare.

Lupin unlatched the cage and leaned over to get a better look. "What spell was used?" he asked, a bit sharply.

"Ask  _her_ ," Olivia said in a tone that threatened more screeching, and Lupin frowned, cutting her off curtly.

"I'm asking all of you; which spell was used?"

"It was one of the Reformation spells, sir," Emily supplied, " _Reformabattus Rattus_ , I think."

"Deflected by a Shield Charm," Calista added, not because it would make a difference, but because she wanted to make it perfectly clear to the Professor that she hadn't been the one to cast the Transfiguration spell.

"That doesn't explain why she's not moving," Lupin said, brow furrowing with concern.

"Oh," Calista said, a bit sheepishly, " _That_ , at least, is my fault. She was panicking, so I put her under a Freezing Charm so she wouldn't hide where we couldn't get to her. Mine last a long time. Here, I'll release it —"

Calista set Olivia's wand carefully down on the table and adjusted her grip on her own, waving it to release the charm on Portia; Olivia lunged forward, and Calista flinched instinctively, but the other girl only snatched her wand up from the table.

They could hear the scrabble of claws against the floor of the cage, and then against the wooden surface of the desk, as Portia unfroze and darted out of the cage.

Lupin murmured a spell and waved his wand, and then, with a sharp  _snap_ , Portia appeared, sitting in a crouched position on the desk. She scrambled off, and promptly began wailing and crying; that set Olivia to shrieking again, too, and Calista and Emily both winced.

Lupin hurriedly sent Portia off to the hospital wing to be checked out by Madam Pomfrey as a precaution, and sent Olivia to accompany her.

"Professor, you ought to expel her," Olivia said, helpfully, as she ushered Portia out, "Or at  _least_  revoke her Prefect badge. She's very dangerous, you know — half her family's been locked up in Azkaban, her mother's  _Bellatrix Lestrange_!"

Calista sucked in a breath, and flinched, harder even than she had at either Olivia's unexpected touch or movement earlier, and hastily focused on pushing down the threads of memory that threatened to rise from the depths of her mind. Relentlessly she forced them down, forced them back.

"Emily," Professor Lupin was saying, but it was strange, because his gaze was fixed on Calista, "I assume you witnessed what happened; please tell me what you saw."

Emily flushed slightly. "I… erm, well, it was the  _Reformabattus Rattus_  spell," she repeated, "And the Shield Charm, like Calista said."

"I see. Just to be clear, the Reformation spell was indeed cast by Miss Avril?"

"Yes, sir, it was."

Lupin nodded. "Thank you, Emily. You can go. Perhaps you'd like to go to the hospital wing, and check on your friend?"

Emily nodded, and left quickly; on the way out, she cast a look at Calista, who was too internally focused to bother trying to decipher it.

"Calista," Lupin said, and she braced herself to be reprimanded, even though Emily had at least told the truth. Instead of admonishing her, though, or giving her a detention, Lupin lowered himself slightly, so they were level, and looked at her quite kindly. "Are you all right?"

Calista blinked, unnerved by the question; it was the last thing she had expected him to say. He didn't seem to be reacting to what Olivia had said… but then, it wasn't as if he didn't already know...

"I — yes," she said, taking a breath and composing herself, as best she could.

Sometimes, she could hear her mother's name without batting an eye, and other times, it made her blood run cold and her memories threaten to rush forward. Just now, she was trying not to see her mother's deranged eyes, through the bars of her Azkaban cell; the very same image that had accompanied the news clipping that Olivia had once hidden in her textbook.

Lupin nodded, and she saw his hand twitch briefly towards her, as if he intended to reach out. He seemed to think better of it, and instead he drew himself up to his full height again, and stepped back, towards the corner where his briefcase leaned against the wall.

"Take a moment if you need it," he advised, and then he shot a small, wry smile over his shoulder. "Just so you know, even if I did have the authority, which I almost assuredly don't, I have no intention of expelling you,  _or_  revoking your Prefect badge."

"Obviously," she snarked, defensively, "As I didn't do anything wrong."

He didn't seem bothered by her tone, or else he didn't register it. He lifted his briefcase and set it on the desk, next to the now-empty cage, and leaned against the front of the desk, turning back to face her.

"Friends of yours?" he asked, conversationally. It took her a few seconds to realise he must have meant her roommates.

" _No_ ," she said, emphatically. "Definitely not."

"Ah." He smiled lightly. "I only asked out of curiosity — you see, I was a Prefect, too, when I was in school, and I had some… difficulty… keeping my friends in line, sometimes. I wondered if perhaps we had that in common."

"Oh," she said, slightly unnerved by his kindness, and by his conversational tone; he was a professor, shouldn't he be either punishing her or sending her away? "Well, we don't.'

She realised she sounded harsh; more importantly, she sounded disrespectful, and even though he wasn't acting much like it at the moment, he  _was_  still a professor.

"Erm, I just mean," she clarified, attempting to make her voice sound less combative, "My friends aren't really the sort that get in a lot of trouble."

 _Well, most of them aren't_ , she thought, as both Amelia and Eva sprang to her mind.

" _Ah_ ," Lupin said, and his smile widened, slightly. "I admit, I did notice you chose to sit among the Gryffindors in my class."

"No," she corrected, "I sat with Percy; and I'm sorry, but are you implying that Gryffindors aren't the sort to get in trouble? Because if you  _are_ , then you clearly haven't had your fifth-year Gryffindor class yet — Percy's twin brothers are in a league of their own."

She realised, again, that she'd forgotten he was a professor. It was difficult to keep that in mind, when she couldn't help but see him as she'd first met him, the soft-spoken man who read unicorn books out loud. It was the voice, she realised, that was why; it was precisely the same as she remembered.

She needn't have worried about offending him, though; he was chuckling softly now. "Oh, I've had the class," he said, "I'm inclined to agree with you — oh, and I do know better, of course, having been in Gryffindor myself."

"So it must have been your Gryffindor friends you couldn't keep in line," she said, a bit teasingly; for some reason, he blanched, and she wondered if she'd said something wrong.

"I mean, when you were a Prefect," she added, "Like you said…"

His expression cleared, and he pushed himself off the edge of the desk, retrieving her cat cage and holding it out to her. "Ah. Yes, quite right. Well… I suppose I shouldn't keep you. I imagine you have better things to do than chat with your professor in a dusty old office."

She hid a smirk; actually, what he'd just said pretty accurately summed up her typical evening, in her father's office. "That's debatable," she said, but she took the cage, and left.

She reflected that perhaps after she had dropped the cage off, she would have a chat with a different professor in a dusty old office after all, and fill him in on what had happened with her roommates before a different story started circulating.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

She never made it all the way back to her father's office; instead, she nearly collided with a very large, solid someone on the dark stairwell that led to the dungeons.

She jumped back, and looked up, even though the person she'd almost bumped into was on a lower stair.

It was Marcus. She noticed that first, and then she noticed that his face was blotchy, and his eyes looked wet and red.

"Marcus?" she said, and even though they were most definitely not friends anymore, she set the cage down and looked at him properly. "Are you all right?"

"How can you ask me that?" he asked, in a broken, hoarse tone that only reinforced her suspicion that he had been crying; but that was impossible, she had  _never_  seen Marcus cry. "Of course I'm not. My whole  _life_  is over."

"What happened?" she asked, and then she noticed he had his broomstick in his hand, and he was wearing his cloak. "Where are you going?"

"Leaving," he said, abruptly, fiercely; she heard the break in his voice that she suspected he was trying to disguise. "I'm done with Hogwarts."

"But it's the middle of the night, and the school year just started, and — don't you have to take at least two more N.E.W.T.s to graduate?"

"Who cares?" he snarled, expression twisting with mingled pain and rage, "Now  _get out of my way,_ or I'll  _make_  you."

He seemed to take a perverse sort of pleasure in turning around the words she'd once used, when she'd threatened him to leave Gerald, and her other friends alone. He hadn't gotten any better at hiding his emotions in that time; she could see the desperation and grief in his eyes.

"Marcus," she said again, betting that he wouldn't actually resort to physically pushing her out of the way; she was right. He huffed in frustration, but stayed where he was. "What happened? What's wrong?"

She tried to imagine what might make her look so grief-stricken, so hopeless… she shivered, and she had a sudden flash of a memory: a chill fall day several years ago, when she and her father had been walking out on the grounds. A biting breeze had picked up, and then thestral had wheeled overhead, casting its shadow over her father…

"Did… did something happen to your d— erm, to one of your parents?" she asked, fearfully.

Marcus stared at her, disbelieving; had she guessed, somehow? She opened her mouth again, to tell him that she hadn't read his mind, that she was only asking — but he finally spoke again, first.

"Do you really not know?" he choked out, shaking his head, "I figured maybe it was your idea…"

" _What_ , Marcus?"

"Quidditch," he finally said, and his voice broke again, "I've been — I've been kicked off the team…"

Tears, now, finally did start to fall; he wiped them angrily away, and made to march past her. She shifted slightly, blocking him again, and he snarled in frustration, but didn't touch her.

" _That's_  what you're so upset about?  _Quidditch_? I thought someone  _died_."

"See, you don't  _get it_ ," Marcus growled, "Quidditch is  _everything_  to me. If I can't play,  _I_  might as well be the one that died! I'll never be on a real team — the scouts wanted to see me play another year first, and now I  _can't_!"

"Why?" she asked, frowning, "Why did you get kicked off the team?"

His face twisted up again. "Disqualified. Can't be on the team if you're not really a seventh year anymore…"

"But you are. I mean, technically…"

"Yeah, well," Marcus wiped furiously at his face again, " _Technically_ , I'm disqualified."

"Oh…" she tried to understand, but she still had a funny feeling in her gut, leftover from imagining he might lost something much worse than a game… or, rather, from imagining  _she_  might lose something… "Erm, I'm… I'm sorry."

"I thought the team would have my back, you know," he said, bitterly, "But you know what happened, as soon as I told them? Fucking Derek Logan ran straight to Sn— to your dad's office, and guess who's captain now? Didn't even take an hour to be replaced."

"That's — I mean, who decided that? Have  _you_  talked to my dad?"

Marcus guffawed harshly. "'Course I have. He's the one that told me. Y'know what he said?"

"Obviously not."

"Offered to write home to my dad, explaining it to him. Like  _that's_  going to make anything better…"

Calista felt a chill spread through her, starting in the place in her gut that already didn't feel well.

"Now,  _please_ , get the hell out of my way. I meant it, I'm leaving, I'm done with school."

"Hang on," Calista said, and something awful dawned on her. "He said — my dad said something about writing home to your family?"

"To my dad, yeah," Marcus said impatiently, "Calista, move, I mean it, or I'll kick this stupid crate. Is your cat even  _in_  it? I don't hear any hissing."

"Marcus, wait. Don't — don't do anything, don't go anywhere, okay? I think… I think I can fix this."

" _How_?"

"My dad," she said, grimly. "I don't think I ever told him — well anyway, nevermind. Just — don't do anything stupid, okay? I'm going to talk to him."

"Didn't you already?" he muttered, but he did look like he had calmed down, slightly; it was hard to tell in the dim light, but she thought she saw a faint flicker of hope cross his face. "You sure that's not  _why_  this happened?"

"Hey," she said, a bit sternly; she shifted, drawing herself up as tall as she could; still, even standing a stair below her, he was several inches taller, but he looked down, and met her gaze.

"Remember what you said, last year?" she reminded him, "Well, I wouldn't, either — I wouldn't hurt you on purpose."

He blinked, and something in his expression shifted, and softened.

"Now," she said, making her voice clear and light, as she leaned over to pick up her empty cat cage. Marcus started to move, ducking in the opposite direction. " _You_  get out of  _my_ way. Or I'll make you."

He pressed his back to the wall, leaving space for her to pass.

"Already did," he said, heavily.


	4. Chapter 4

When Calista let herself into Severus' quarters that evening, he had already retired to his study, even though it wasn't particularly late. It was early enough in the term, she supposed, that he didn't have much to correct yet, for essays, which was the thing that usually kept him in his office well into the nighttime hours.

She barely acknowledged his greeting, or the brief look of pleased surprise that crossed his face when she entered; and anyway, as soon as she had noted it, it was replaced by a disgusted sneer.

"Get that  _wretched creature_  out of here —" he started, eyes on the open crate in Calista's hand.

She rolled her eyes and set it down. "It's empty. Yellow's probably hiding under my bed, the way he  _usually_  does when Olivia starts shouting. Dad, I have to talk to you about something. About Marcus."

Severus' lip curled, and he lowered his gaze back to the book he was holding in his lap. "I don't think so. I should have known you weren't here merely to visit. I'm trying to enjoy a quiet evening, if you don't mind."

"Yes, well," Calista scowled, mildly offended by his dismissal, "Since you've utterly ruined  _my_  chances for a quiet evening, pardon me if I'm not willing to oblige."

Severus snapped the book shut, with evident irritation. "Fine," he said tightly, "You have two minutes of my attention for this… _argument_ , about the Flint boy. And then, I expect you to visit with me pleasantly, or, if you cannot manage that, as I'm beginning to suspect may be the case, then you can take your leave."

"Did you throw Marcus off the Quidditch team because of me?"

Severus exhaled. "I removed Mr. Flint from the Quidditch team," he said, evenly, "Because school rules clearly state that playing Quidditch is a privilege reserved for second-year through seventh-year students in  _good academic standing._ "

"Marcus  _is_  a seventh year," she said, "And it's too early in the term for him to be in poor standing."

"Mr. Flint is repeating his seventh year," Severus corrected, "Because he failed all but one of his exams last year; I'd hardly call that  _good standing_."

Calista frowned. "He — but he's good," she said, " _Very_  good. Even I know that, and I don't give a hippogriff's hind end about Quidditch.  _You_ , on the other hand,  _do_. I know you want Slytherin to win the Quidditch cup again, and Marcus is the best player we have."

"What a pity Quidditch prowess doesn't factor into academic standing, then," Severus snarled sarcastically. "Calista, are we finished here? I'd very much like to get back to my book —"

"Well,  _I'd_  very much like to get through a school year without my entire house hating me and thinking I'm a traitor — you do realise everyone thinks him being chucked from the team is my doing, right?"

Severus frowned. "I made it very clear that the reason for his disqualification was his academic standing —"

"Was it, though?" Calista challenged, "Is it  _really_  a rule that someone repeating their seventh year can't play on the team?"

"It's never happened before."

"But is it a rule?" she pressed, "Or is it something you just made up because you thought that — somehow — you should punish him for what happened last year?"

Severus' expression briefly stilled; then he frowned dismissively, and picked up his book again.

"That's why you did it, isn't it?" Calista asked, quietly, even though he wasn't looking up from his book any longer. "He said you — he said you said something about writing home to his dad…"

Severus scowled and looked at her over the top of his book. "I am quite certain that two minutes have passed; you may leave. I'll make an announcement that the decision to remove Flint was based entirely on school rules and his academic standing."

"The thing is though," Calista pressed on, despite his unwelcoming look, "No one's going to believe that;  _I_ don't believe it. I think you removed him because you're angry about the letter from Uncle Lucius last year, the one Marcus' dad wrote — "

She ignored the warning curl of his lip, and continued firmly: "The letter that you said  _I_ could handle dealing with Marcus for — and I did, I talked to him, and it turns out… Dad, he didn't write it. He didn't even ask his dad to write it; his dad decided to do that all on his own."

"So the boy says," he said dismissively.

"Yes," Calista said, " _So he says_ ; and I believe him. We both know I'd know if he was lying, and if you cared to find out the truth, instead of just assuming,  _you'd_  know, too. I'm not forgiving or excusing the way he's treated people in the past — least of all Gerald — but he doesn't deserve this. Quidditch is… it's the most important thing to him. It's like if you were forcing me to give up Charms, or Ancient Runes…"

She saw his expression soften and shift; he was considering her words.

"Or Defence Against the Dark Arts," she added, a bit darkly, because his sour mood had rubbed off on her somewhat.

Severus' scowl returned. "Oh, fine," he snarled, " _Very well_. That blasted boy can play bloody Quidditch; now just  _go_ , will you? I have  _six_  classes to teach tomorrow —"

"Thanks, Dad," she said, feeling a cool rush of relief. "Really. I'll go now, I promise. Oh — but there was one more thing. She's fine now, but if Olivia and Portia come to you saying I transfigured Portia, it's a lie. Olivia tried to transfigure  _me_ , and I used a Shield Charm. I guess my aim's not as good as Gerald's, yet."

Severus set the book down and looked up, brows shooting up and mouth twisting into a snarl.

" _What?_ "

"She's fine," Calista repeated, backing slowly towards the doorway. "And so am I, obviously. Just thought I'd warn you in case one of them comes by. But, erm — you know, two minutes is definitely up. I'll leave you alone, now."

"Calista," he said, with mingled warning and exasperation; but she knew the nuances of his tone well by now, and knew he wasn't concerned enough to follow after her.

"Good night," she called, hurrying out into the corridor and towards the door.

"Calista," he said again; damn. Had she misjudged his tone?

" _Take the bloody cage_ ," he growled; Calista bit back a sheepish smile as she returned to grab it.

"Sorry. Good night, Dad."

Severus was holding his book up in front of his face now, with near-defiance. "It was," he groused from behind it. And then, grudgingly: "Good night, I suppose."

Calista smiled to herself, even though she distinctly heard him mutter the word 'insufferable' as she left. At least she'd solved  _one_  problem with relative ease.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

By the time Calista returned to the Slytherin dungeon, there were only a few students hanging around in the common room. Marcus was nowhere to be found; she hoped he'd simply gone to his dorm room, and hadn't decided to do something stupid and reckless after all.

It occurred to her for the first time that Marcus would have new roommates this year, since his old ones had graduated. He'd be in with the boys in  _her_  year now; she wondered if he and Derek Logan would have a row about Derek's immediate takeover of the Team Captain title.

That reminded her of what was undoubtedly waiting for her in her own dormitory, and she wished she'd decided to stay in her father's quarters, even if he  _was_ in a foul temper. She'd have to check his class schedule later, and see which classes he had on Tuesdays besides hers; she had a feeling that he'd had the Weasley twins that day, or perhaps Potter and his friends.

She considered staying up in the common room, but she was tired. She resigned herself to entering her dorm room, wand drawn — but she needn't have worried. The lights were out, and when she quietly lit the tip of her wand, it looked like only Emily's bed was occupied. She dimmed her wand and set Yellow's cage down, then grabbed her nightdress and pulled it onto her bed with her. She drew the curtains around her four-poster bed, and started to change behind them, as was her custom.

"Calista?" She paused, tilting her head.

"Yeah, Emily?"

"Just checking if it was you."

"Yeah, just me. I guess Olivia and Portia must still be in the hospital wing. It figures they'd try to get as much attention as possible."

"Mm. I hope they aren't too mad at me, for telling the truth."

"I'm sure they'll get over it if they are — at least, once they have an essay due, they will."

Emily was quiet for a minute, and Calista finished changing, and then opened the curtains to put her clothes away.

She climbed back into bed, and after a few minutes she felt Yellow jump up beside her, and start pushing at Calista's leg with his paws, kneading.

"I don't like doing their work for them," Emily said, after a few minutes, into the dark silence.

"So then," Calista said, "Don't."

"I have to," Emily insisted, "Or they'll be awful to me. They'll turn everyone against me, and…"

"No," Calista said, hearing a note of exasperation creep into her voice. She and Emily had followed this same script dozens of times, and nothing ever changed. "Not  _everyone_. Not even all of the Slytherins."

As she said it, Calista realised it was true; in the last few years, the dynamics within Slytherin had shifted. Perhaps the majority of Slytherins still did Olivia's bidding, still teased and tormented whoever she did — but there were many who didn't. For every Portia MacNair or Hecate Rowle, there was likely to be a Daisy Spratt, or a Sofia Lima, or even an Eva Selwyn. For every few Derek Logans, there was a George Spratt.

"I don't know," Emily was fretting, her next line coming verbatim from what felt like a hundred prior rehearsals, "What if she  _does_  something to me, or tells everyone my mum only works at the bookstore, or..."

Calista tuned Emily out; she knew everything she was going to say, anyway. Instead, she tried remember when things had started to shift within Slytherin, and when she pieced it together, she couldn't help but smirk, in the dark.

"You know, Emily," Calista interrupted, deviating from the script, "If she does any of that, I could always hit her in the face again."

Calista waited for Emily's characteristic scolding, her protest that it was an awful thing to stay, but it never came.

Instead, the only thing she heard from Emily was a yawn, and then a murmured good night.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The next time Calista saw Marcus, he was heading outside with his broomstick over his shoulder and a look of jubilation on his face, so she supposed he must have received the good news.

Portia and Olivia were still cross with her, although Olivia had quickly given up on trying to blame Calista for transfiguring Portia. Now, richly, they were blaming her for getting Derek Logan replaced as Quidditch Captain — a position he'd held for less than a day, and that he had only obtained because of Marcus' brief removal, which they seemed to have already forgotten they'd  _also_  blamed her for. If Calista had ever needed proof that Olivia would  _never_  stop hating her, no matter what she did, she thought she had it now.

On Thursday afternoon, the whispers started; she would hear someone whisper something that sounded distinctly like 'Snape', but when she whirled around to look, no one would meet her gaze. She tried to ignore the hard ball of dread that had started to form in her gut, told herself she had expected this, since the train ride, since Orpheus Rowle had first said something about her relation to Azkaban's infamous escaped prisoner.

She didn't feel much like eating at dinner, but she also didn't want to start her father fussing over her so early into the school year, so she forced herself to go to the Great Hall. Once she arrived, she was glad she did — Draco was there, out of the hospital wing at last.

She was glad to see him well, despite the fact that after three more visits in the hospital wing this past week, she'd only become more convinced that he was hiding something. She approached the section of the Slytherin table where he was sitting with his friends, Vincent and Greg, and they quickly made room for her to sit - she noticed that Greg looked particularly eager for her to do so, and even patted the bench next to himself invitingly.

She accepted the perch gingerly, largely because she could feel Hecate Rowle's eyes on her from the other end of the table, where she had been planning on sitting near Sofia.

"Hi Greg, Hi Vincent," she said a bit carefully, because despite their conversation last year, she was beginning to suspect that Greg Goyle wasn't  _quite_  over his infatuation with her. The goofy grin he offered in reply only bolstered her suspicion.

"I'm glad to see you out of the hospital wing," she said, quickly diverting her focus and looking her cousin over in much the same way her father often did to her. "Are you feeling better?"

"Oh, as better as I can be," Draco said, and he gestured with his pointed chin down to his arm, still held in a sling. "It still hurts, of course, but — I suppose I'll manage."

Calista frowned. "Have you asked my dad to look at it? He's very good with healing spells, too."

"Not yet," Draco said, "But maybe I will, if it doesn't get better soon. Did I tell you, Father's contacted the Ministry about that beast of Hagrid's that attacked me?"

Calista reached for a piece of chicken and some mixed vegetables that were nearby, and added a bit to her plate, even though she wasn't particularly hungry.

"You said he was going to. Are they going to send someone out from the Beast Division to look at the hippogriff? If it really  _is_  a crossbreed with some sort of Dark creature, that might be why your arm still hurts."

"Oh, I expect they will," Draco said confidently, "And I expect that uneducated lump of meat we're meant to call a professor will be out of a job as well as out of a pet, soon enough."

Greg and Vincent chuckled, and Calista glanced up towards the staff table. Hagrid certainly looked miserable — she thought he might even look somewhat remorseful, as well he should, if he had been conducting breeding experiments that had resulted in a student's injury. She made an internal note to talk to one of her friends that was taking Care of Magical Creatures, or perhaps to go and find the errant hippogriff herself and examine it — from afar, of course.

"Really," Draco drawled beside her, "I can't believe the calibre of new professors lately. First we had that moron Lockhart last year, and now this year we've got that great hairy oaf and  _that one_ , who doesn't look like he could duel his way out of a shoebox."

"Hm?" Calista swallowed a bite of chicken, and looked back at her cousin, "Who? Are you still talking about Hagrid?"

"No, the  _other_  idiot Dumbledore hired this year," her cousin said, "Loony Lupin."

Calista blinked. "I don't think he's that bad. We're finally studying the Patronus Charm in my class."

Draco's eyebrows reached practically to his hairline. " _You_  don't think he's that bad?" he asked, in an incredulous tone, " _You_ , of all people? After what he did today with Potter's class?"

Calista furrowed her brow. "What did he do with Potter's class?"

Draco, Vincent, and Greg were all watching her now, with a mixed range of expressions — Greg seemed to be watching with apprehension, Vincent eagerly, and Draco with a mix between the two.

"You mean you haven't  _heard_?" Draco asked; when she met his gaze with a pointedly blank stare, his eyes lit up. Around them, the House tables were starting to thin out, as the dinner hour neared its end.

"Obviously not," she said, a bit waspishly, setting her fork down. "Are you going to tell me, or just keep looking at me like it's suddenly Christmas?"

"Oh, I'll tell you," Draco said, and then he glanced up to the staff table. She followed his gaze; about half of the professors were still there, including Hagrid and including her father; Lupin, she noticed, was not. "Not here, though, not with professors around —"

He turned his head, watching a cluster of students leave the Great Hall — she noticed Daisy among them, walking with and talking to a Gryffindor boy that Calista thought looked vaguely familiar. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to feel a warm rush of pride; perhaps her and Percy's unlikely friendship really  _had_  sparked something among some of the younger students. Perhaps —

Her hopeful musing was cut short by Draco's insistent tugging at her sleeve, with his uninjured arm. "Come on," he said, and he was talking to his friends as well, gesturing to something or someone beyond them with his chin as he rose from his place at the table, "Let's go after him."

Vincent grinned and nodded eagerly. Greg looked like he was concerned, or perhaps confused — it was sometimes hard to tell with him — and Draco had the holiday look back in his eyes, one she'd seen plenty of times when he was smaller and was about to attack the ubiquitously huge mound of presents his parents gave him at Christmas.

She walked with Draco and his friends, abandoning the remains of her dinner. "Draco," she asked, slightly exasperated, as they exited the Great Hall, "What happened? Did someone get hurt in class, or something?"

Of course, it was Defence class; Calista supposed that if someone had gotten hurt, that probably only meant that they were finally learning something  _useful_  for once, perhaps even engaging in practice duels, as Severus had always insisted they should.

"Er — no," Draco said, not slowing until they'd cleared the Great Hall by several corridors. Up ahead, the group of students — Daisy, several boys in Gryffindor robes, and what looked like a couple of younger Hufflepuffs as well — went as one into the library, their chatter dying down obediently, undoubtedly under Madam Pince's pointed, hushing stare.

Finally, Draco and his friends stopped, and Draco turned to face Calista, cradling his sling-bound arm and wincing briefly as he did so. Finally, he looked up at her, keen anticipation in his eyes.

"We're studying boggarts this year in Defence," Draco said, and it was such an unexpected declaration that Calista laughed quietly.

"Is that all?" she asked, unimpressed, "You had to drag me out of the Great Hall to tell me you're studying  _boggarts_? You should be — there were several questions about them on the O.W.L. exam."

"Yes, well," Draco said, drawing himself up importantly, "We're having  _practial_ lessons. Lupin made us all take a turn yesterday, turning whatever we feared into something funny —"

"I made a troll turn into a pile of Cauldron Cakes," Greg interrupted, proudly. "And Vincent turned a mummy pink."

Calista frowned. "That's — you had to practise  _in front of_  each other?" That was worse than needing to reveal their Patronuses to their classmates by far. Calista imagined having her mother's effigy appear in front her entire class, heart began to pound; only with great effort did she manage to control her breathing, to keep her gaze fixed solidly on her cousin. She hoped her expression was as blank as it felt.

"Oh, that's not the interesting part," Draco said, casting a dismissive look over his friends, and barely acknowledging Calista's concern, "Apparently in the  _Gryffindor_  class, the boggart turned into Severus — into your father."

"Hm?" Calista registered the words dimly, as she focused on building an invisible mental wall around the vision of Bellatrix that was determined to materialise in her mind. "It — it did?"

Vincent and Greg were nodding, and Draco lowered his voice, in a dramatic hush.

"That's what the rumour is," he confirmed, "The b— erm, the  _worst_ part, though, is how they got rid of it."

She frowned, taking in a few deep breaths, until she felt calmer, until the image of Bellatrix had stopped threatening to surface. "How did they get rid of it?" she asked dutifully, because all three of them seemed to be waiting on her to ask.

"They dressed him up like an old woman," Draco said, in a dramatically hushed tone, "Lacy dress, handbag, big stuffed vulture hat, and  _everything_."

Another image was swiftly replacing the more sinister one that had moments ago threatened to invade.

" _What_?" she snarled, "They did —  _what?_ "

"I can't believe you hadn't heard yet," Draco said, "It's been the talk of the entire school since lunchtime. People are even saying he — the boggart version of your dad, I mean — was even tottering around in high heels."

"This is — " Calista's mind raced, as she tried to wrap her head around what her cousin was telling her — was  _this_  the reason for the whispers all day, then? She had thought that rumours about her relation to Black were the worst they could possibly be, but the rage that was slowly beginning to drum a tempo against the inside of her forehead caused her to question that assumption. "The whole  _school_  has heard about this? And no one's been punished?"

"I'm afraid it's true," Draco said ruefully, "On all accounts. I'd have thought — if you didn't know, I suppose that explains why you haven't gone after Longbottom  _yet_."

Calista barely heard her cousin's words beyond his affirmation that she'd understood things correctly. "Who did it?" she asked, in a hard tone, "And  _where are they, now_?"

Draco's face lit up like Christmas, once more, and he nudged his friends — Calista dimly registered that he'd used his injured arm to do so, but hadn't winced this time — and then he was walking quickly ahead of her.

"He just went in the library," Draco said, eagerly, "You can, er,  _deal_  with him now."

Calista followed after her cousin, but as it happened, the group they had followed was being ushered firmly  _out_  of the library, by a rather put-out looking Madam Pince.

"The library is for studying," she wheezed, over their heads, "Not for mucking about with  _trading cards_."

She saw that many of them, Daisy and the others, were holding onto fistfuls of Chocolate Frog cards, and chattering excitedly. She looked over the crowd, surveying their faces, wondering which of the little brats it was that had insulted her father —

And then her eyes fell on one of the Gryffindor boys, and stayed there. He was round-faced and a bit soft-looking, with curls of brown hair and freckles that made him appear younger than his years; he was the one that she'd noticed with Daisy earlier, the one that looked vaguely familiar… and then she realised  _why_ , realised precisely who he was…

"It was him," Draco said, loudly and gleefully, and the group all looked up at them; the familiar boy's eyes shot to Draco, and to each of his friends.

"What do  _you_  want, M-Malfoy?" the boy challenged, in a voice that tried valiantly not to shake but still did.

Draco smirked, ignoring the boy and lifting his face to to look at his cousin.

"It was Longbottom that insulted your father, Calista…"

The boy's eyes darted to Calista, and as he registered what Draco had said, and realised who Calista was, they went wide and round with fear.

"P-please," the boy mumbled, going as white as a sheet, "I d-didn't mean… please don't c-curse me…"

Calista realised that her fingers had clenched around her wand in her pocket; hastily, she released their grip, and drew her empty hand out, shaking her head and taking a bewildered step backward.

Longbottom flinched, eyes darting to her hand, as if he expected her to cast the Killing Curse on him at any moment. Daisy leaned over and said something to him, but a furious rushing had started in Calista's ears, and she couldn't make out what it was.

 _Longbottom_. Neville Longbottom. The boy whose parents had been tortured to insanity by her mother; the one boy who probably had as much reason to fear Bellatrix as  _she_  did, only he was looking at her with abject terror, as if  _she_  were her mother.

She took another step backward, wincing inwardly, invisibly, at the sudden pain of the snakes, the wretched wriggling, biting snakes from the summer returning instantly to her gut.

Her cousin's expression shifted from expectant glee to puzzlement, and then to disappointment; she looked at him because she couldn't look at the boy, at Longbottom, anymore.

"I'm… I'm sorry," she managed, and it was all that she could say. She didn't even know — or she told herself that she didn't know — precisely who she was apologising to, and why.

She turned quickly, tearing her eyes away from all of them, and headed blindly away. She thought she heard someone call after her, but it could have been her imagination, or a trick… an echo of sound weaving through the rushing that  _still_  pulsed at her ears, behind her forehead.

As she hurried away, she felt a complicated tangle in her mind - an interwoven knot of feelings, and memories, and images that felt hard and heavy and in desperate need of being picked apart, only doing so by herself felt suddenly daunting and exhausting.

She turned corners and climbed stairs, hoping to outrun things that she already knew she never could; not while they lived inside her, not while they swam in her blood and visited her in the darkness of nearly every sleepless night.

She thought she understood, for the first time, what Gerald had meant when he'd said it was too hard, sometimes, to live in his own head, and then the gnawing in her gut mixed with a different pain, a gaping, hollow ache. She realised suddenly that she was missing him, more in that moment than she had even after her run-in with the dementor, even after her Patronus had failed, even after she'd tried to adapt his Shield Charm for her own use.

She thought, as she found herself in a familiar seventh-floor corridor, that if only she could see him now, if only he were here, to hold her hands, to listen — she thought that she might be willing, in that moment, to really talk, if only to see if releasing any of the words would also release the heavy pressure that pulsed at her skin from somewhere inside her, if she could possibly open herself up enough to allow the heavy mass of serpentine dread in her gut to find its way out.

She wanted to see him —  _needed_  to talk to him, to be reminded of and surrounded by his bravery and steadfast kindness, to remind herself that he saw the same things in her, that she did in fact possess them… she started to pace, in front of the tapestry along the wall.  _Did_  the room work that way? If she needed it badly enough,  _could_  Gerald somehow appear within it…?

She flinched in surprise as a figure materialised at the end of the corridor on her fourth or fifth pass by the tapestry. Could it be… somehow, had her idea worked? Was the room's magic so great that it could summon Gerald from hundreds of miles away, just because she needed it?

The figure stepped closer, and Calista's heart quieted; of course it had been a foolish thing to hope for, of course the room's magic, however great and uncanny it was, could do no such thing.

"You should go, Daisy," Calista said, haltingly, forcing her emotional state behind an internal wall, going deliberately and carefully blank. Everything still rolled and boiled beneath the surface; she hoped the younger girl would leave now, while she still had a rein on it all. "I'm not — I'm not good company just now."

"That's okay," Daisy said, still drawing closer. "Sometimes I'm not, either. I don't mind."

"Daisy," Calista said again, allowing a small note of exasperation into her words; she heard her voice catch, and hoped that Daisy was not observant or intuitive enough to notice. "Go back to the common room."

Instead of retreating, Daisy stepped right past her, and lifted the edge of the tapestry.

"Daisy, go —" Calista started, turning around. Then she noticed that, where Daisy held the tapestry aside, there was an open doorway.

"This room again," Daisy said, wonderingly, poking her head inside. She pulled her head back out and looked at Calista. "It's all different now," she said, the pitch of her voice going high with amazement, "It doesn't look like my bedroom anymore…Magic really is amazing, isn't it?"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had had every intention of sending Daisy away, but then she'd heard footsteps further along the corridor, and unsure who they could belong to, but knowing she didn't want this secret room discovered, not when it had proven so useful on so many occasions, she'd instead ushered her inside.

Her jaw had dropped when she'd entered the room. Daisy was right; it  _was_  all different. It wasn't Daisy's bedroom, or even her  _own_  bedroom, or her father's office, as she'd half-expected.

Instead, when she shut the door silently behind them, they found themselves standing in the middle of a perfect replica of the Ravenclaw common room.

"This place is so pretty," Daisy said, still in evident awe of the magic of the room, "Look at those curtains — and that window, all the light!"

Even Calista, who was no longer surprised by much of anything that magic could do, had to admit that it was an impressive feat the room had managed — even with the darkness of night enveloping the castle, the tall window let in beams of what looked very much like natural sunlight. She tilted her head back, and looked up to the vaulted ceiling that she knew existed in Ravenclaw tower, but that should have been impossible in this part of the castle.

"Pretty," Calista echoed; she felt the ache of yearning welling up inside her. The only thing wrong with this replica was that it was empty of all of the people that she had come to expect there — not only Gerald, but Penny and Amelia, and even several others she'd come to really like talking to.

"What is it supposed to be?" Daisy wondered, wandering over to a deep blue armchair, and settling herself in it comfortably as she looked all around, craning her neck. "Is this — this isn't your home, is it? It's massive."

"No," Calista said. She crossed the room, and approached the window, wondering if she'd be able to see out onto the grounds, if she'd have the same view as she did from within the tower proper, but the windowpanes were evidently the boundary of the illusion; when she stepped up to the glass, all she could see beyond was the dazzlingly bright light of the false sun.

She turned around, and blinked, as brightly coloured spots floated, filling up her vision. Perhaps staring straight out into the light had been a stupid idea. "This is the Ravenclaw common room. Or at least, it looks very much like it."

"Really?" The pitch of Daisy's voice rose. "How do you know? And why did the magic make  _their_  common room, instead of ours?"

Calista didn't move or respond until most of the coloured blobs had faded from her vision. When they mostly had, she blinked a few more times, and then walked over to a bookshelf within sight of Daisy's chosen armchair. She reached to pluck a title off the shelf, but the illusion didn't spread that far, either; even though she  _felt_  the comforting texture of grouped book spines beneath her fingers, she couldn't pull any of them out.

"I know because I've been there," Calista said, "Several times. They don't have a password, like we do. It's a riddle, and anyone who can answer it can get in."

She rubbed absently at one of the book spine's, one that bore the title  _Secrets of Ancient Runes_. It felt a little cruel, to have something in front of her that reminded her so fiercely of Gerald, when he couldn't be here.

"I suppose," she said, reluctantly turning away from the wall of false books, "The room did exactly what it's supposed to. It gives you whatever you need…"

Daisy brightened. "Oh, I see," she said, "When I needed to feel comfortable talking to you, it transformed itself into my bedroom. And now, when you need to feel comfortable talking…"

"No," Calista said firmly, cutting her off, "I don't need, and I won't do, any such thing.  _You_  need to return to the common room… come, I'm sure whoever was out in the corridor is gone by now."

Daisy leaned back stubbornly in her chair. "I'm not going without you," she said, "It's miles back to the common room from here, and anyway, I saw how you looked, a few minutes ago, near the library."

"I'm  _fine_ ," Calista snarled, "And it's got to be nearly curfew — if I say you'll return to the common room, you'll  _return to the common room_."

"It's only half past six," Daisy said, stubbornly. "And I mean it — I know what someone looks like when they need a friend, and right now, that's what  _you_  look like."

Calista exhaled; she didn't have time for this. She didn't have the patience, the fortitude, at the moment, to hold everything back behind her walls forever and Daisy's stubbornness, while undeniably well-meaning, was trying her.

"You can go on and yell at me if it will make you feel better," Daisy continued, "But it won't make me go away. I'm not scared of you."

"What?" Calista snarled, "Daisy, I don't have time for this. I'm supposed to be patrolling the Astronomy Tower..."

"Well, but you're not there, though, you're here, and I'm here, and like I said — I'm not going until you go, because you're my friend and I think you need me right now, and I think the  _room_  thinks that, too. Look, there's no knob, on the door."

Calista blinked, and followed Daisy's gaze.  _This_  couldn't possibly be what the room had in mind, what it had understood her need as...

But, evidently, it  _was_ , or else something had gone horribly wrong with the illusion. She strode over to the door, feeling along its blank expanse, but Daisy was right. Where the  _real_  door of the Ravenclaw common room had a handle on the inside, this one had nothing by which to open the door.

"It's only supposed to lack a knob on the  _outside_ ," she murmured, feeling along the edge of the doorframe now. Did this version have a riddle to get  _out_ , instead of  _in_? But there was no eagle knocker, either, nothing at all that sprang to life to ask her a question.

"It's the magic, isn't it?" Daisy said, her bright tone returning, "It's not going to let us out until you get what you need from it. It's perfect, isn't it? You helped me in here, and now I get to help you."

"I don't need your help," Calista snarled, even though everything inside her — the heavy, gnawing weight of her mind, of her memories, of the wide-eyed fear that Longbottom had regarded her with — was still pushing at her from the inside, desperate for an outlet. "I don't  _want_  your help."

"Why not?" Daisy challenged, without real offence, "Because I'm only thirteen, is that it? Well, I help my brother all the time, and he's the same age as you. He says I'm really good to talk to."

Calista sighed, and gave up on inspecting the door; whether Daisy's interpretation of the situation was correct or not, it appeared that, for the moment anyway, they were stuck. Perhaps, if she hadn't been in such a familiar and favoured room, she might have worried more at that. Besides, her father was in the castle, and she knew that she could call out to him with legilimency if she really couldn't get out.

She wasn't quite willing to share the secret of the room with him, assuming he didn't already know about it — not because of any particular reaction he might have, but simply because she liked the idea of having one place in the castle that she could hide, when she needed to. In fact, the only thing  _currently_  wrong with her hiding place was that Daisy had followed her into it…

"Why are we in the Ravenclaw common room, anyway?" Daisy asked, a second time. "Do you suppose the room got confused?"

"No," Calista said, evenly and somewhat heavily, "I don't suppose it did. I imagine we're in the Ravenclaw common room because it's one of my favourite places in the castle — maybe in the world."

She glanced at Daisy. "I suppose I shouldn't admit that; I'm a  _Slytherin_  Prefect, after all. My own father's the Head of House."

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "You think I don't understand about feeling like you belong in a different house?"

"I never said I feel like I don't belong in Slytherin," she said, quickly. "Just — you know, I like their common room better."

"Maybe you didn't  _say_  it," Daisy said gently, "But that's what you mean, isn't it? You feel like you got Sorted wrong, don't you?"

Calista exhaled; she was tempted to lie, but their being here already gave the game away. Besides, Daisy  _was_  one of the few people outside of her Ravenclaw friends who might understand.

"Maybe" she admitted. "I mean — I do wonder. And, you know, the worst part is, I could have been in Ravenclaw. I… I tried the hat on again, last year. It told me… well, there was something I said on the train, and apparently the hat knew about it, and it seemed to think I'd picked Slytherin. Then it… then it told me, it was going to put me in Ravenclaw, if not for that stupid thing I said."

Daisy frowned. "What  _was_ it? Was it something about… about wanting to be near your dad? That's how I got in Slytherin — I wanted to be with my brother."

"No," Calista said, "I suppose that might have factored in, though — you know, subconsciously. I think I was afraid my dad would be disappointed if I was sorted into a different house."

She realised she'd always wondered about that, but had never actually said it aloud. A miniscule portion of the weight in her gut eased.

"I don't think he would have," Daisy said, "Well — I mean, maybe if you were in Gryffindor. But I bet he'd still be proud if you were in Ravenclaw."

"Maybe," Calista said again, allowing a tiny smile. "It's nice of you to say, and I hope you're right… although I'd prefer it if you never mentioned this conversation to him, just in case."

"Not to worry," Daisy said, quickly. "I, erm — I don't really talk to him outside of class."

Calista's tiny smile melted into a rueful, humourless smirk. She was used to that sort of reaction from her classmates, when it came to her father. She wondered what any of them would think, if they could have seen the other side of him — the levity in his words when he'd had to tell her that her friend was Petrified in the hospital wing, the way he promised, always, to keep her safe.

"Hey, Calista," Daisy said after a moment, interrupting her musing, "Remember when I told you I could've gone to Hufflepuff, but I chose Slytherin instead? And you said you were glad to have me in Slytherin?"

Calista nodded. "Of course. I still am, Daisy."

"Well, I'm glad that  _you're_  in Slytherin, too," Daisy said, sincerely. "When I first got to Hogwarts, I was scared to be away from home, and I didn't know anything about magic, except what I learned from George. I thought, you know, that was the only reason I was in Slytherin, was because I asked to be, when I was scared of being alone."

"I know," Calista said, a bit sadly. She couldn't tell her now, when it wouldn't do her any good, but privately — no matter what she'd said — she thought Daisy would have done better in Hufflepuff.

"I'm not finished," Daisy said, as if she'd somehow guessed what Calista was thinking, "That's how it was  _at first_ , right? But I don't really feel that way anymore, at least not most of the time. I have lots of good friends now, not just in Slytherin, but in  _all_  the Houses. I can stand up to Gretchen, without doing any of the nasty things to  _her_  that she used to do to me. Instead of just wanting to go back home, or stick as close to George as possible, I want to do all kinds of other things. I have top marks in a lot of classes, you know, and I'm  _really_  good at Herbology and Potions. I figure maybe someday, I can run my own apothecary, or even invent a new healing potion."

"That's great, Daisy," Calista said, making an effort to match Daisy's sincerity, even though she still thought Daisy could have done all those things from Hufflepuff and been happier for it, too.

"Yeah," Daisy agreed, eagerly, "And I really think I can do it. But the thing is… if I wasn't in Slytherin with you, I don't know if it would have all gone like that."

"Of course it would," Calista said, dismissively. "You're a nice person, and you're good at those things all on your own — your friends, your classes — those have nothing to do with me."

"I didn't get good marks in school," Daisy said, "In Muggle school, I mean, before. I didn't think I was very smart and I didn't see the point in trying. And I was shy. I didn't have that many friends. Once I got to Hogwarts, everyone told me, you're a Slytherin, you can't be friends with other Houses…"

Calista snorted. "That's a load of rubbish."

"Yeah, it is," Daisy agreed, " _You_  were the one that taught me that. You've taught me lots of things. When I first got to Hogwarts, all I wanted was to go home, and now… well now, what I want is to be just like you."

Calista sucked in a breath, and was startled to feel a familiar sting behind her eyes. "That's — no, Daisy, you don't want that," she protested, even though a pleasant surge of warmth was flooding her, at the words, threatening to displace the heavy ache in her gut.

"Of course I do," Daisy said, easily. "Why  _wouldn't_ I?"

"Ask your friend," Calista said, tightly. "L— Neville. Ask him."

She saw his wide, terrified eyes again, and shut her own eyes as if she could forget the image that way. It was no use, she saw it still, saw him flinch away from her. She had no idea how he could possibly know who her mother was, but she had no doubt that he  _did_  know. Perhaps Olivia had told him.

"Neville?" Daisy sounded puzzled. Calista opened her eyes. Daisy was shaking her head. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"He — didn't you see how he reacted, when he saw me? He was terrified of me…"

"Oh." Daisy's expression cleared. "Yeah, but I told him he doesn't have to be. I told him it was all right, that you're my friend and you weren't going to do anything to him. I think he was just afraid because erm — he's pretty afraid of your dad."

Calista blinked. "No," she said, "That wasn't — that couldn't have been why. It wasn't… it wasn't because of my  _dad_  that he's afraid of me."

A sickening thought had occurred to her; what if  _no one_  had told Neville who her mother was? Aunt Narcissa was always saying that she looked like her, even if Calista didn't want to believe it. What if she was right? What if Neville Longbottom had looked at her, and had seen Bellatrix?

"Yes it was," Daisy said, still puzzled. "He  _said_  it was."

"He… did?"

Daisy nodded. "And he's afraid of your cousin too, I think, even though he said he wasn't, really. I… erm, I heard about the boggart, and once Neville saw you with Draco, and realised  _you_  knew about the boggart thing… he was afraid you were going to curse him for it."

" _That's_  really why he's afraid of me? Because of my  _dad_?"

"Yeah, of course. I mean — I'm not in his year of course so I don't know firsthand, but… he makes it sound like your dad is — pretty cruel to him, in class. He even threatened to poison Neville's pet toad…"

"He didn't mean it," Calista said, quickly, still trying to wrap her head around the idea that  _her father_  could inspire such terror. "He always  _threatens_  with poison, but I've never known him to actually follow through."

"Well, Neville said it was to test a potion they were making in class. If Neville had the potion wrong, his toad would have died."

"No it wouldn't have," Calista said, "My dad — he wouldn't poison someone — or some _thing_  — if he didn't have the antidote right nearby. I'm sure it was just meant to scare him into getting the potion right."

"Yeah, maybe," Daisy said, a bit doubtfully. Then she tilted her head and leaned forward, hands on the edges of her chair's arms. "Calista?"

"Mm?"

"If you didn't think it was your dad — what  _did_  you think Neville was afraid of you for?"

"Oh — nothing." Calista swallowed, hard. If Daisy didn't know… if Neville Longbottom didn't know… that was for the best. She busied herself with walking over to the door, to check for a knob or a handle, anything she could use to leave, or to send Daisy away.

The door's surface was still smooth, unbroken — impenetrable.

"I don't think…." Daisy said, hesitantly, and then, a little bolder: "I don't think Neville knows about your mum."

Calista froze. After a few seconds of silence stretched out, during which a knob still failed to materialise, she turned slowly, to face Daisy.

"But you do." It wasn't a question.

"Am I… not supposed to?"

"Well, I don't exactly go around telling everyone," Calista said, bitterly. "For obvious reasons."

Daisy frowned. "I forget who told me," she said, "I figure pretty much everyone in Slytherin knows, at least since Draco started at Hogwarts. I mean — he's always talking all about his family - all about  _your_  family. Eva had to explain to me what she did to end up in Azkaban. It's… it's pretty hard to believe. I thought maybe she was having me on at first."

Calista felt suddenly sick to her stomach. Daisy  _knew_ —? She knew all of the horrible things that Bellatrix had done, knew that her mother had tortured and murdered Muggles and Muggle-borns, and anyone else that she saw as inferior, or who got in her way...

"You  _know_ what she did?" Calista asked, "And you still — you still..."  _want to be like me?_ She couldn't bring herself to ask that. "You still like me?"

"I probably would have been scared if someone told me before," Daisy admitted, "But by the time I found out — I already knew you. And Eva said it's not that unusual, that lots of people have family in Azkaban, or family that  _almost_ went to Azkaban, or family who died. I mean — there was a war, right? There were — bad people and terrorist groups on both sides. The same thing happens in the Muggle world."

"I hate her," Calista said quietly. "I want you to know that. I don't — I don't believe the things she does."

"Well,  _duh_."

"If… if my class had to fight boggarts… she'd be mine. Only, there's no way I can think of to make her funny..."

Daisy frowned, and slid off her chair. She stepped closer, offering an encouraging smile.

"Professor Lupin says laughter's just the  _easiest_  way to defeat a boggart," Daisy reminded her. "But anything that makes the fear weaker works, too."

"I don't know if I can think of anything to do  _that_ , either."

"I can," Daisy said, and she surprised Calista with a quick, fierce hug. Calista stumbled back slightly, not quite certain if she deserved it. "Look at all the bad things she did — but then, somehow, there's you that came from her, and you're kind, and fair, and you stand up for the same kinds of people she hurt. That's what makes  _me_  less afraid of people like her."

Calista felt the prickle of tears against her eyes again, and before she realised what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around Daisy, returning the hug.

"I think you have it backwards, Daisy. I think  _I_ should be trying to be just like  _you_."

Daisy grinned up at her; and then she grinned at something beyond her. "Hey, look — there's a doorknob now! It worked, I was right!"

Calista extracted herself from the hug, and followed Daisy's gaze. She was right, there was a latch on the door now that hadn't been there before.

"Well," Calista said, regulating her tone, because she was feeling very emotional suddenly, even though it was, mercifully a whole different sort of emotional than she'd come in here feeling, "It looks like  _you've_  solved the riddle of this room. I guess you'd make a pretty good Ravenclaw, too."

"You know what I think?" Daisy said, reaching for Calista's hand, as they approached the door. "I think we're both pretty good  _Slytherins_."

"You do?"

"Sure. I mean — we're both brave, obviously."

"Obviously," Calista agreed good-naturedly, even though most of the time she didn't particularly feel like she was.

"And we're smart," Daisy said, gesturing to the door, "Smart enough to solve the Ravenclaw puzzles… and I think you'd have made just as good a Hufflepuff as I would have."

"I'm not sure about that."

Daisy waved her hand, dismissively. "You would've. But what's the point of being brave, and smart, and kind if you're not going to  _do_  anything with it? That's where we need the Slytherin bit — the ambition. To actually  _change_  things."

Calista felt her face spreading into a real, genuine smile — perhaps the first one of the school year.

"Daisy Spratt, you might be the most cunning Slytherin of all."

Daisy grinned, and blushed.

"Oh — and George was right," she added, as she lifted the latch on the door, checking carefully that the corridor was empty before guiding Daisy out ahead of her. "You're very good to talk to."

Something was echoing in her head, something the Sorting Hat had told her last year… something that had never quite made sense to her, until this very minute.

_In Ravenclaw, you might have been happy. But in Slytherin… you'll be great._

It was possible that the hat had meant something entirely different; maybe it had only meant that she'd do better in school, or be a better potions brewer — or maybe… just maybe, Daisy was right. After all, she'd been right about the door.

They walked companionably, tracing the long path back to the Slytherin common room. Calista wondered how she'd explain missing the first two hours of her patrol to Penny and Percy — but then,  _technically_ , she could say she'd been looking after one of the younger students. Even if it had really been the other way around, this time.

"One more thing," Calista said, as Daisy opened her mouth to recite the password. "What you said, about being in Slytherin — about having ambition to change things… that's the sort of example we need more of. Prefects can't award House points, but I'm going to ask my Dad to give you some. I can't imagine he's going to disagree."

Daisy lit up. "That's — thanks, Calista. I want… I really want us to win the House Cup this year."

Calista smiled back. "Me, too. Even if Avril doesn't think I do."

"We will," Daisy said, encouragingly. "I really think we will."


	5. Chapter 5

During October's monthly Prefect meeting, they were at last given the planned dates for Hogsmeade weekends, to post about the castle. Calista scanned the list eagerly, hardly listening to Percy and Penny's other updates, counting them off and anticipating the number of days she'd get to see Gerald…

She frowned, noticing that the first weekend wasn't to be held on a Saturday after all, but on Halloween proper, which was on a Sunday. She hoped her father would move her lessons for that particular weekend to Saturday. She thought he would, but she supposed she'd better wait until he was in a good mood to ask, just in case. Of course, it didn't seem as if she'd seen him in a good mood at all this term. His demeanour certainly hadn't improved in the weeks following Neville Longbottom's boggart incident.

When at last the meeting was over - Calista had never been so eager for one to end in all the time she'd been a Prefect - she gathered the stack of flyers she was meant to post, and hurried towards the dungeons.

She posted a copy of the flyer in the Slytherin common room, and then went to her dorm room, withdrawing a quill and a sheet of parchment from her own stores, and sitting on her bed, the stack of flyers beside her, and pulled the curtains around her bed to have some privacy.

She penned a quick note to Gerald, written in the Latin runic language, to counter the last letter he'd sent a few days ago which had been written entirely in French, with some runes mixed in and had taken her almost an hour to decode; as soon as she'd begun to recognise some of the words and phrases he normally used, he'd begun peppering his letter with other, unfamiliar language, and some of it was so achingly corny that she couldn't quite decide if she should melt or vomit.

Still — though she didn't want to admit it — even the corniest bits were so in keeping with him, with the eager, awkwardly sweet way he always seemed to behave around her, that she truly didn't mind, so long as he kept his promise not to send any verse. She  _would_  have to draw the line there.

When she'd finished her letter, she rolled up a copy of the Hogsmeade schedule with it; and then, she smiled slyly. An idea had just occurred to her.

Gerald wasn't the  _only_  one who could fill his communications with sweet, romantic symbols. She rummaged in her wardrobe, and withdrew a yellow hair ribbon - the same one, in fact, that she'd had on the night they'd met in the Restricted Section of the library last year to finally admit their feelings for each other. She spritzed a bit of her perfume on it, the apple blossom scent that he'd liked on her, that night, and then she used the ribbon to tie the rolled parchment of her letter.

She fought off a blush as she carried the letter, and the stack of remaining flyers with her to the Owlery. It wasn't like anything she'd ever done before, but she thought he'd like it. The symbolism of it, more than anything else, ought to appeal to him, since it was like something out of some old, romantic — and, Calista privately thought, sappy — tale. She thought it might even be something Aunt Narcissa would have recommended. Even if it  _did_  feel a little silly to her, she wished she could be there to see his reaction, to see if his eyes lit up, if his cheeks turned as pink as hers undoubtedly were, just now.

"Seriously?" An incredulous voice from the shadows startled her, as she tied her letter to Lucerne's leg. "Are you writing to my brother  _again_? I just saw you in here the day before yesterday."

Calista blinked, eyes shifting to the source of the familiar voice. Despite the tone of his voice, Terry's expression wasn't unfriendly.

"Well, who are  _you_  writing to again?" Calista challenged, archly. "You're in here as often as I am."

"Not Gerry," Terry sniffed. He raised his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a teasing, if still somewhat good-natured, smirk. "Honestly, what can he  _possibly_  have to say that's so interesting? Oh, wait — I forgot, you're a boring swot just like him. Trading off history lessons, are you?"

"Hardly."

"Oh, right," Terry said, carrying his own snowy owl to the window, and releasing it; Calista saw there was a letter attached to its leg, though she couldn't make out the address. She wondered if he  _was_  writing to Gerry after all, but didn't want to admit it for some reason. Surely he missed having his older brother at school with him, despite his protests? "Not history, rune translations."

Calista hid a small smile; he wasn't very far off the mark, really. Not only had she written the letter in runic language, but she'd even addressed with with the rune for  _Owl_. To her delight, both Lucerne and Uruz seemed to understand that meant the letter was meant for Gerald… of course, it could easily have been a lucky guess, considering the volume of post she sent him.

"Maybe," she said, vaguely. "Anyway, we just got the Hogsmeade schedule, that's why I'm writing him again."

Terry frowned; Calista thought she saw a flicker of concern cross his face. "Gerry's going to come for those?"

"If he can. I mean, I  _hope_  he is." It was her turn to frown, now; had he told Terry something different? Had he possibly changed his mind about coming to see her?

"Oh." Terry's frown deepened. "I suppose you two will just be at the bookstore the whole time, then?"

"Oh. Erm…" Calista fought off a blush; while that sounded nice, she actually had something else in mind; a quiet walk, perhaps, to one of the lesser-travelled areas at the outskirts of town… where they could talk privately and practise a bit of that flirting he was so good at, and… well, anyway, she certainly wasn't about to tell his younger brother any of  _that_. "Probably something like that," she settled for.

Terry nodded. And then: "Mum's real excited about you and Gerry, you know."

"She… she is?" She'd only met Gerald's mother once, at his birthday party the summer before her sixth year, and, admittedly, she hadn't really talked to her enough to get much of an impression about her one way or the other. Calista remembered she'd seemed nice but had been very quiet. She did remember thinking that neither of her sons seemed to take after her much in looks; where they both had brown hair and eyes, their mother had blonde hair and lighter eyes. The rest of her impression was hazy at best.

"Well, I think really it's the idea of Gerry and  _any_  girl, mind you. I used to always tease him that he couldn't marry an actual library, and even though Mum scolded me for saying it, I'm pretty sure she was worried he might try. I'd bet my broomstick Mum's going to have him ask you over during the Christmas break, just to make sure you're real."

Terry smirked again, pleased as usual to have managed a joke at his older brother's expense; Calista was reminded, as she nearly always was when she spoke to Terry, of her cousin Draco. It still surprised her that the two of them weren't friendly, despite being in the same year.

"Your mother's already met me," Calista reminded him, as Lucerne hooted softly, a reminder that she was eager to get to delivering her letter and, undoubtedly, to hunting her dinner. "At Gerald's seventeenth birthday party."

"Yeah," Terry grinned. "You have  _no_   _idea_  how excited she was that he invited girls —  _two_  of you, even. He begged her not to say anything to either of you at the party, but you should've seen her as soon as you and Amelia left, she wouldn't stop asking him which one of you he fancied, but he wouldn't tell her. 'Course,  _I_  knew. Made five Galleons keeping  _that_  secret."

"Erm," Calista said, suddenly feeling vaguely unnerved, though she wasn't sure precisely why. She covered the few paces between her and the window, releasing Lucerne into the afternoon air, and by the time she turned back to face Terry, she had cleared any lingering uncertainty from her expression.

"If that's true, I guess you owe the money back to him now, because I'm fairly certain you weren't supposed to tell  _me_  any of that. And anyway — he didn't, erm,  _fancy_  me back then. We were just friends — I mean, I was still going out with  _Marcus_ back then."

"Well yeah," Terry said, with the air of one pointing out the obvious, "That's why he wanted to keep it secret. Anyway, it's nice out, I'm going to go out flying. See you at Christmas, I bet."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Sunday morning found Calista hunched over her usual spot at her father's kitchen table, books and sheets of parchment spread out haphazardly before her. It was their pattern, lately. Severus would test her defenses while she worked on her research, and then, towards the end of the lesson, she would try a new rune pattern in an attempt to perform legilimency without her wand, in the same manner she could perform her Freezing Charm.

It was proving to be a much more difficult and complex task than coming up with the rune for her Freezing Charm had been; but then, legilimency was infinitely more complex than a simple charm, so perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise. She'd determined quickly that more than one rune would be required, and she'd elected to stick to Latin-based runes, since she knew them best and had already had success with her charm.

"Have you made any progress with your Charm?" Severus asked, almost idly, as tendrils of his mind scouted the outer perimeter of hers, searching for a weak spot. Calista started almost guiltily; she hadn't told him about her Patronus Charm failing; she hadn't told anyone but Gerald. Penny and Percy had seen it fail, though — had one of them told him?

"Ah, some," she said, vaguely, affecting a casual tone and suppressing any of her thoughts that might betray her lie. Still, it wasn't for lack of trying — she was beginning to feel a panicky hopelessness whenever she did try, but that hadn't stopped her, yet. She  _had_  to get her Patronus back, now more than ever, with dementors roaming the grounds.

"Have you tried casting nonverbally?"

"Hm?" She furrowed her brow, though she doubted he could see it; she kept her face trained on the pages of the open book before her, eyes scrolling unseeingly over the same paragraph multiple times; she felt the prickle of his intrusion, an attempt to slip through her barriers, and she held firm, not letting him sneak through.

"The traditional Charm," he clarified, "Or the runic one; have you tried either nonverbally?"

"Oh." It dawned on her that he hadn't meant her Patronus Charm at all; he'd been referring to her Freezing Charm. She was glad she hadn't offered any additional information. "No, I haven't; do you think I should?"

"It certainly can't hurt."

She nodded, and returned to reading. Now, she really  _did_  start reading the page before her. He still didn't know about her Patronus Charm, and for that she felt a short-lived uneasy sort of relief. She intended to get it back before he found out, or she was certain he'd bar her from leaving the castle walls alone.

"Did you bring your cloak?" Severus asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"No," she said slowly, "Was I supposed to?"

Severus was silent for a minute; the pressure of his mind against hers increased briefly, but she was still able to fight it off with moderate effort. She wondered if she was getting even stronger; she  _felt_  like she was, or else he'd been deliberately easy on her the last few weeks.

"I thought we'd conduct our Defence lessons outside today," he said, in an offhand tone that she recognised immediately as deceptive; she had the sudden and distinct impression that whatever he had in mind for her Defence lesson this afternoon, he'd had it planned well before she arrived today. "It's no matter," he continued, "I believe you left a spare here."

 _Damn._ She kept her face, the surface of her mind carefully blank, but her heart sank. He  _did_  know about her Patronus Charm; he had to, he knew  _everything_. What was his plan, then? To force her to reveal the truth or even — she wondered wildly — to have her practise against one of the dementors?

But no… it couldn't be anything like that. She recalled the look on his face, the lines etched around the corners of his mouth and between his eyebrows when he'd come to meet her at the castle steps, once he heard she'd been affected by the dementor on the train. He'd been sick with worry; she couldn't imagine him deliberately subjecting her to the dementors, not for any reason.

"Why are we going outside?" She was impressed with how nonchalant she managed to sound, but wondered if he could see through it as well as she could see through his own attempt at it.

"I thought," he said, and her ears perked at the sudden tautness in his voice, "We would practise in the forest again."

She looked up, knowing alarm had sparked in her eyes. "The… the healing spell again?" she asked quietly, feeling dread settle heavily in the pit of her stomach, as images of small animals — mice, rabbits, goats — gazing up at her with pain-filled eyes flashed unbidden behind her eyes. "I thought you said I had it, now…I thought we were done with that spell."

She could feel even now, the pressure, the rising panic, that she'd felt when practising that spell; the urgency she'd had to complete the healing properly and end the animals' pain had been so strong that she'd often left those lessons feeling physically ill, especially once they'd worked up to larger animals.

Despite the clues she'd heard in his voice, his face was impassable, eyes dark and inscrutable as they locked on hers, trying to use the advantage of eye contact to infiltrate her mind at last — she held strong, held firm, kept him out of her mind even with the increased pressure.

"We are," he said, simply and with finality. He lowered his wand, and she felt his presence withdraw, suddenly and completely from her mind. He waved his wand at the table, and a plate of sandwiches appeared. "Eat," he commanded, "We'll head out after lunch."

"Dad, what —" she started, but he had already turned on his heel, and was gone.

She frowned, and forced herself to eat half a sandwich while he was gone, despite the nerves that were buzzing in her gut, suddenly. Ordinarily, she'd have jumped at the chance to go with him into the forest, but now… now there were dementors, and that tight, hard tone in his voice, and both of them had set her on edge.

When he returned perhaps a quarter of an hour later, he was wearing a heavy black cloak, and carrying a small wire cage with perhaps five or six rats inside. She frowned.

"What are the rats for?"

"Practise," he said, shortly; and then: "Get your cloak. I believe there's one in the dresser in your room."

My  _old_  room, she thought, but didn't correct him; she wondered, for the first time, what he would do with it once she'd graduated Hogwarts, but that thought did nothing to quell the unease in her stomach, so she let it go, pushing it firmly out of her mind as she slipped into the room and snatched the old cloak from the top drawer of her old dresser.

It was slightly short, now, coming down only to her ankles, but it was still warm, and the edge of the fur-lined hood felt soft and comforting against her neck. She dimly remembered Marcus complaining good-naturedly that it had tickled, when he'd tried to kiss her neck around it a couple of years ago, and she forced that memory down, too.

They were both quiet as they left the castle, and she trailed slightly behind him on the way through the grounds; in the distance, she spied a dark, cloaked figure, and instinctively she drew closer to Severus. Just as instinctively, he reached for her hand, gripping it securely in his own, as if she were much younger. She let him hold on to it, the cage of rats swinging from his other hand like a pendulum, until they had passed and the creature was out of sight.

"I hate them," she muttered quietly; Severus glanced down at her with an expression that held something like sympathy, but there was something else mixed in with it, too, something she had a difficult time interpreting.

"As do I," was all he said, as he straightened again and set his eyes on the forest ahead.

"At least…" she started, and stopped just as quickly. She'd been about to say,  _at least you can cast a Patronus against them_ , but she'd remembered just in time that he still believed she could, too. She recalled the bright, silver doe form his had taken, and wanted to ask him about it, again, but she was afraid to bring it up.

"At least what?"

"At least…" she swallowed. "At least, erm, they can't come in the castle."

"No, they can't," he agreed, with another backwards glance at her. "But there are  _other_  dangers, Calista. Don't think you're safe just because you're behind the castle walls."

She shivered, remembering the awful dread of much of last year, the mysterious monster — the basilisk, as it had turned out — that had stalked through the castle, attacking students and nearly killing her friend. Before that, there had been Quirrel, the odd way he'd looked at her, and the cold smile on his face when he'd raised his wand against her.

"It's hard to believe," she managed, "That it ever felt safe there." But it had, once; she knew it had. Even now, there was still one place, one corner, that felt safe, and they'd just left it.

She recalled how the Room of Requirement had once transformed into a replica of his office; she wondered what he would think of that, and then immediately wondered what he'd think of the fact that the  _last_  time she'd gone there, it had turned into the Ravenclaw common room instead. Perhaps it was for the best, after all, that she'd decided not to tell him about her trips to that room.

Finally, they reached the forest. Severus guided her perhaps a dozen paces in, just far enough that anyone on the grounds would have a hard time spotting them. He released her hand, and unlatched the cage, drawing a single rat out before re-latching it and setting it down. It crunched heavily against the leaves that carpeted the forest floor as he set it down.

"Use your Freezing Charm," he instructed, as his fingers struggled to hold onto the squealing, squirming thing. Calista obeyed, drawing her wand and casting; the creature stilled, and Severus set it down on the forest floor, a slight distance from the cage full of its friends.

"Now," Severus said, grimly, "Watch carefully."

He crossed the distance between them, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with her, and lifted his own wand. Obediently, she watched him, watched the subtle flick of his wrist, the hard lines that settled around his mouth as he opened it, a silky incantation slipping out with a slippery, quiet sort of force.

" _Sectumsempra_ ," he hissed, and immediately the creature's skin opened up, in familiar, seeping wounds.

Calista scrambled to her knees on the ground, crunching against the leafy cover and waved her wand, instinctively following the direction of the wounds. She began the melodic countercurse.

" _Vulnera Sanentur_ ,"

"Calista," Severus said, quietly, from behind her; she ignored him, and worked through the second chorus of the spell, as bleeding slowed, and the creature's wounds began to knit together neatly. Up close, she noticed that even after her ministrations, this particular rat was skinny and worn-looking; it was even missing a toe on one paw. She couldn't help but wonder if it was one they'd used last year, practising the very same spell. If it was possible to feel pity for a rat, she thought she was feeling it now.

" _Vulnera Sanentur_ ," she murmured, a third time —

"That's good enough," Severus said, behind her, but she didn't rise until the rat was mended, the wounds all but invisible; there was still a faint trace. Without an application of dittany — something she knew Severus was loathe to waste on a castle rat — they never would fully fade.

"I thought you said we were  _done_  with that spell," Calista said, accusingly, as she got to her feet, and faced him. "You  _said_  I knew it well enough —"

"You do," Severus said again, quietly; there was something in his face now, something to match the heavy tautness of her voice. Iron returned to the pit of her stomach.

"Now," he continued, in the same voice, "I want you to practise the curse."

Calista felt her throat tighten and her eyes widen. "But…"

Severus interrupted her, before she could lodge whatever protest she had in mind; she didn't even know yet what she was protesting, so it was just as well.

"You said you wanted to learn Dark magic," Severus said quietly, " _And_  you agreed to follow my curriculum for Defence lessons, to maintain your freedom to roam the castle."

"That was — " Her mind raced; yes, she'd wanted to learn Dark magic, she still  _did_ , and he'd already taught her a number of spells that could be classified as such. It wasn't the first time he'd bid her practise on mice or rats. He'd even had her practise some of them on  _him._  But this… this spell was different. She wasn't quite ready to articulate  _how_  it was different, so she settled for arguing his other point instead.

"That was last year, with the… the monster in the chamber," she protested, "And the bargain was — it was to keep my Prefect patrols with Ger — well, it was to keep my patrols, despite the danger..."

"Yes it was," Severus agreed, "And this year, you still have patrols, and there is still danger."

"Not… not like last year," she managed, uncertainly.

"Not  _quite_  like last year," Severus agreed, voice low. "This year,  _I_  know the nature of the danger, and you will follow my curriculum, or you will not have the freedom to roam the castle  _or_  the grounds." And then, as if he'd sensed the very thought that had flickered into the forefront of her mind, he added, voice silky and dark: "You have plans, I believe, to meet Mr. Boot in Hogsmeade?"

"This spell isn't…" she swallowed, and met his gaze directly. "It isn't like any others you've taught me," she said, hating the slight wobble in her voice. "This won't just cause pain; it's not only injury at stake."

When they'd first begun practising the healing spell, she had not always been quick enough, not always been effective enough. She didn't want to think about those times; especially not the occasion or two when Severus hadn't been quick enough in his intervention when it became clear she wasn't going to succeed.

"This curse can kill —  _will_  kill, if I don't perform the countercurse quickly enough," she said, quietly.

Severus nodded, tightly. "Yes, it will. Which is why I insisted that you master the countercurse before learning it."

Calista felt a jolt in her stomach, a knot in her throat; she wondered if she was going to be sick. He was serious; he really expected her to cast the spell. He had not offered the use of training dummy from their old practises; she knew there was no point in asking for it now, knew by the look in his eyes that he'd already considered and dismissed that idea.

A small, frantic squeal and a sudden rustling of the leaves near her feet startled her; she looked down just in time to see the rat scamper away. Before she could properly react, it had disappeared beneath the cover of leaves.

"My freezing charm broke," she murmured; she felt a perverse sense of relief. "It got away."

Severus' gaze shifted, towards the base of a nearby tree; she followed it to the little cage that rested on a scattering of dry leaves at its base.

"There are others," he said, tonelessly, and then: "Do you need me to demonstrate again?"

"No," she said quickly, forcefully; that was the  _last_  thing she thought she needed to see. But then, if the demonstration was over…

Confirming the very thing that was twisting up her gut, Severus stepped across the chill, leaf-strewn ground, and unlatched the cage, withdrawing a second squealing, frightened rat.

"Freezing Charm," he commanded, again, and Calista obeyed, stilling the creature. Like the partially transformed rat-Portia, Calista thought she could see, still, the fear in its frozen eyes. Did rats have memories? How well could they see? Did this one know what had befallen its friend, what was about to happen to  _it_? Or was it simply the fear of being handled, of being at the mercy of creatures larger and more powerful than it was?

"Go on," Severus said, grimly; she lifted her wand, wondered if he noticed the way her fingers, her arm trembled, wondered if noticing would change his mind.

She knew one thing, from previous lessons; if she mangled the spell, if she got it only half-right, he'd make her do it again. She recalled the curses he'd forced her to practise on him, recalled the agonising feeling of having to complete the spell properly before he'd allow her to heal him. There was no reason to think he wouldn't follow suit, here.

She sucked in a breath, and reached inside, reached for the dark, for the pulsing anger and the near-bottomless fear that fueled Dark spells like these — and she found that she didn't have to reach very far or very hard at all; it flowed through her, almost immediately and with very little effort, dark and roaring and terrifyingly magnificent:

" _Sectumsempra!_ "

She dropped her arm, and stumbled forward, going blindly for the rat; she felt weak and hollow and her head was swimming, but she knew the spell had worked, could feel that she had done it, and she knew she had to apply the counter-curse as quickly as possible —

"Calista —"

She ignored him, again. "Vul—" she stammered, aiming at the still, mangled form of the rat, even as blood pooled on the cold ground around it, " _Vulnera Sanentur…"_

She felt something warm and solid around her shoulders, even as the rat, the forest floor, the bases of the nearby trees began to swirl and sway before her. The warm, steadying something tightened, and she realised it was her father's arm, pulling her close; he had a hand at her cheek now, and was turning her face away from the bleeding rat, and towards him.

"I have to — the counter —" she stammered, and Severus shook his head.

"It's too late, Calista," he said, and around the hard edge in his words, she thought she also heard the soft, quiet slither of sorrow, or pity. "The rat is dead."

He was saying other things, now; that the rat was very small and that her cast had been very powerful, that the spell was originally designed to be used against larger enemies, and that it was not her fault it had been so effective on the much smaller creature. He said all of this very quickly and several times over, but Calista hardly heard a word of it, even as her vision cleared and steadied and her head began to feel normal again.

He lifted the hand from her cheek, and hooked a long finger around a section of her hair that had come loose, and was being blown across her face by the chill autumn wind, tucking it behind her ear like she was a small child again, having one of her nightmares. His sleeve had come unbuttoned at the wrist and slipped partially down his arm.

"There wouldn't have been time for pain," Severus was saying, quietly, "The rat didn't suffer."

She didn't hear that, either, not really. She heard one thing, and she saw one thing.

 _The rat is dead_ , she heard, again and again, an echoing chorus. And then, even though she hadn't said it aloud,  _I killed the rat._

She saw the bright scarlet head of a snake where his sleeve had fallen, stark and vivid against the waxy whiteness of his forearm. She didn't need to see very much of what was there to recognise it; she knew the rest of the pattern like she knew her own skin.

"Calista?" She forced herself to look at his face, when his worry had reached enough of a peak to break through her reverie and snag her attention. "Calista, are you all right?"

"I…" she swallowed; what could she say? What  _was_  there to say? Not  _I killed the rat_ ; he knew that. Not  _I barely tried_ ; she wasn't ready to say aloud how easy it had been. Certainly not,  _I know you have the Mark;_ because, really, hadn't she known that all along, even if she'd never seen the proof of it with her own eyes?

"I was supposed to be in Ravenclaw," she said raggedly, surprising herself. "The hat thought I asked for Slytherin, but I didn't mean to, and I wish I never did."

She leapt up, squirming out of her father's grip, and stuffing her wand in her pocket. She couldn't think of anything else, just then, except getting as far away from the forest, as far away from  _him_ , as far away from what she had done as possible.

"Calista," he called after her, voice keening and teetering with something very close to pain, "Please wait —"

" _I was supposed to be in Ravenclaw!_ " she yelled again, over her shoulder, with every bit of force she could muster; she hoped it was as strong and cutting as the curse she'd just cast had been. Then she turned away, and kept walking.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista would have liked to stay outside; to have run across the grounds, perhaps all the way into Hogsmeade, just to feel that she was still heading  _away_ , and to have the chill autumn wind cool the heat of shame and fear that pulsed beneath her skin; but there were dark figures on the horizon, and even the distant sight of them set her shivering in a way the wind couldn't, and she hurried into the castle, instead.

She didn't know if her father was behind her; at the moment, she didn't care.

She had a vague idea of going to the secret room on the seventh floor, if only because it was the only place she could think of besides perhaps the girls' toilets where her father wouldn't follow her. She didn't know what form the room would take today; didn't know if she deserved to summon the Ravenclaw common room's image again, despite what she'd yelled at her father.

Instead, she was stopped somewhere on the second floor, when she nearly collided with someone in the hall. She leapt back reflexively, and the figure she'd nearly crashed into took a step back as well.

"Chlo — Calista?"

She looked up; it was Remus — no, Professor Lupin — with his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, wearing an expression that was remarkably mild for having been nearly run over.

"Is everything all right?" His eyes searched her, though not as piercingly or intently as her father's always did. "No one's been Transfigured, have they?"

She twitched; she supposed he meant it as a joke, but recalling the dear in rat-Portia's eyes, her panicked squeaks, the scrabble of her claws against the floor of the cage — at the moment, she could find nothing amusing about it.

"No," she managed, and she thought her voice sounded slightly hoarse. Maybe it was from the cold outside; maybe it was from shouting at her father.

He frowned, and tilted his head; his mouth opened. He was going to ask her another question. She didn't want to answer it, whatever it was. She only wanted to continue on her way, to lose herself in the secret room, whatever it became; but then, something else assailed her senses, something warm and fragrant and far more tempting than solitude.

"Is that — is that  _coffee_?" she asked, eyes shifting to the steaming mug in his hands.

Lupin smiled softly. "As a matter of fact, it is," he said, conversationally. "I nearly always drink tea, but today I was in the mood for something different, and I remembered I had a bit of coffee left so I brewed the last of it. I reckon there's still enough left for another cup, if you'd like…?"

She nodded before she'd even consciously decided to accept the offer, and then he turned and she was following him into his office, where the smell of coffee still lingered in the air.

"You were going the other way," Calista said, as he filled a chipped mug with steaming dark liquid, and gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. "I've interrupted you."

"As it happens, I was on my way to the staffroom in search of a bit of company, so really you've saved me a trip. Please, sit down."

He gestured to the empty seat across from his desk, and set the mug down at the corner of his desk. "Sugar?" he asked, reaching for a small, faded ceramic container on the shelf near where he'd retrieved the mug from. "I'm afraid I don't have any cream."

Calista wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, no — er, I mean, no thank you."

Lupin chuckled and slid the mug across the desk, so it was right in front of her. "A purist, eh?"

Calista reached for the mug, and somehow the warmth of it between her fingers was the perfect counter to the chill on her skin, and the fading, tangled heat beneath it. She lifted it to her lips, and took a long, deep sip; it was still quite hot, but she found the scalding, velvety feeling of it comforting.

"Something like that," she said, lowering the mug but keeping her fingers wrapped around it. As comforting as the coffee was, it wasn't enough to loosen the cold, steely knot in her gut; she almost thought she could feel the coffee diverting around it, warming only the edges of her stomach.

Lupin pulled his chair out and over, so that, while it was still on the other side of the desk, it was angled such that it didn't feel like she was sitting across from a teacher at a teacher's desk; it was more like they were both at a table. He settled in the chair, pushing the sleeves of his patched, worn jumper up to his elbows, and resting them on the surface of the desk, pulling his own mug closer, and wrapping his fingers around it in just the same way she did, as if he too, needed the comfort of it, and indeed he stared into its depths like he might have been looking for it.

Calista felt her eyes go, unbidden, to the professor's exposed forearms; they were crossed with a network of scars of varying ages; in a few spots around the scars, the small, fine hairs on the outside of his forearms were sparse, the skin pink and shiny, as if they hadn't all healed properly. Perhaps he hadn't had dittany available, or perhaps the scars had been made by a Dark creature.

She looked away, letting her eyes rove the office, as she considered what she had  _not_  seen on his forearms, the vivid red mark her father bore that Lupin did not. The thought crept in, sinister and forbidden, that perhaps it was rich of her father to judge whatever Lupin had done so harshly; didn't  _he_  bear physical proof of having done undoubtedly worse?

Her wandering eyes landed on a large tank in the corner of the room; seaweed filled most of it, waving back and forth despite the lack of a current in the tank. Between the fronds, she was certain she glimpsed webbed hands, sharp teeth, and beady little eyes. Shrewdly, her eyes darted back to the professor, thinking that perhaps her guess on the origin of his scars wasn't far off; she expected his eyes to be fixed on his mug still, but instead they were watching her.

"You keep kappas in your office?" she asked, brow lifting. "Unusual choice for a pet, isn't it?"

"It would be," Lupin agreed, mildly. "Admittedly, I've known folk who kept stranger creatures. They're for a lesson, though. Third year."

"A  _practical_  lesson?" Her eyebrows rose further. He really was a different sort of Defence teacher than any they'd had before — but then, she remembered, suddenly, a different practical lesson she'd heard about, and her eyes narrowed, accusingly. "I suppose you do like those, for the third years  _especially_ , hm?"

"I try to plan practical lessons at all levels," Lupin said; either he didn't know why she'd suddenly become slightly hostile, or he was pretending not to. "Like with your class, and the Patronus Charm."

Was it a pointed remark, on his part, or was he only trying to distract her from a particular third-year lesson that she'd been dangerously close to bringing up? She reached quickly for her coffee mug and took another long, steadying sip before she had an outburst; she had almost forgotten, again, that this man was her professor. Yelling at him probably wouldn't be advisable.

"I'm supposed to be neutral, of course," Lupin said, almost offhand, "And if this got out, I'd have to deny saying it, but... your essay on the Patronus Charm was one of the most compelling and well-researched pieces I've read in years. I admit, I questioned at first whether it was really student work at all, but Professor Flitwick assures me it's in line with your usual calibre of work."

If he'd hoped to distract her, or mollify her — well, it had worked. She felt a slow smile finding its way to her face, despite everything. She even thought that the very edges of the iceberg in her gut  _might_  have softened, just a bit; she took another long sip of coffee, partly to hide her smile and partly to help the melting along.

"Filius — I'm sorry, Professor Flitwick — also tells me your Patronus itself is impressive; fully corporeal, he says, very bright and well-formed, and with as much personality as a real cat."

Guilt and shame trickled in now, tempering her pride; it was true, that  _was_  what her Patronus had been like; but now, it was little more than a flicker. She knew her face was impassive, but she held the mug up in front of her mouth anyway, an extra layer of protection.

"I was surprised to hear him describe it so openly, when you seemed so loathe to reveal its form in class."

"Mmm," she murmured, behind the mug; she wasn't sure if it was loud enough to carry beyond it.

Lupin picked up his own mug and took a sip, much smaller than the ones she was taking. "If your Patronus  _has_  changed forms," he said, with an air that Calista thought was meant to be gently shrewd, reassuring. "You should know that, while unusual, such a thing isn't entirely unheard of."

"I know that," Calista said, almost hotly; after all, she'd  _written_  about one of Sparkman's case studies in her essay. "That's not —" She stopped; actually, having him believe that her Patronus had changed forms was better than having him know the truth.

"I know you wrote about it," Lupin continued, "Quite splendidly, I might add. I only hoped to reassure you that it's a phenomenon I've heard of, even before your essay. I thought perhaps it might set you at ease to hear that you're… not alone."

 _Not alone_. That stung her, somewhere within the cold, heavy mass that had taken over her insides. It certainly  _seemed_  true, didn't it? But then, she had so many secrets, ones that she was certain  _would_  leave her all alone, if they got out. A blurred image of the dead rat, blood pooled around it, flashed through her mind; she buried it, stubbornly, along with the image of the flash of red she'd seen on her father's forearm, and the image of the network of white lines on her own spine that mirrored its design.

"You thought it might set me at ease," she repeated coldly, feeling a familiar, snappish sort of anger rising up in her; not the cold, frightening rage that rose whenever she cast Dark magic, but the sharp, quick anger that seemed to spring up whenever her walls did; it felt so much easier, so much safer than her  _other_  anger that she indulged it, even when a small, warning voice inside her reminded her again that she was talking to a professor. "Like you thought that making a public mockery of my father might set your third years at ease?"

Lupin's brow had lowered briefly into an expression of mild confusion at her shift in tone; when she finished speaking, she expected it to lower further, expected his lip to curl in anger. Instead, his expression lit up, as if he'd solved a puzzle, and he set his mug down.

" _Ah_ ," he said, and she was reminded, suddenly, of a time when she'd seen him have precisely the same reaction to her: it had been on the Hogwarts steps, when he'd looked between her and Severus and realised that he was her father. She'd thought at the time that the two men had known each other. She wondered, not for the first time, how  _well_  they knew each other, and for what reasons each disliked the other.

"Perhaps that particular lesson was… ill-advised," Lupin admitted. "I didn't mean any lasting insult or harm, though I suppose you may find that difficult to believe."

"Yes," she said, firmly and with silk in her voice; she wasn't sure why she was emulating her father just now, indeed wasn't even sure why she was  _defending_  him at the moment; but the instinct to do so had been sparked. "I  _do_  find that difficult to believe."

"Then please allow me to apologise, Calista, for any harm my lesson might have done."

"You apologised to my father before," she said, because the memory had crystallised fully now, "On the steps, the first day of term, after I — after the dementor. What were you apologising for, then? Did you do something else to him, before?" She remembered what her father had said, about his own time at school, and pushed on recklessly: "Did you — did you bully him  _then_ , too, when you were in school with him?"

Her tone was harsh, and not at all respectful; she braced herself to be yelled at in response, perhaps even given a detention — or perhaps he'd take House points, since he'd told her before that he had been in Gryffindor.

He didn't react with anger, though; it occurred to her that she had no memory of him  _ever_ having done so. Instead, he leaned back slightly, light brown eyes locking on to her dark ones.

"What do you think, Calista?" he asked, very mildly. "Do you think I seem like a bully?"

His question wasn't a challenge; instead, he posed it speculatively, and very seriously, as if he was truly interested in her response. She was tempted to retort that yes, of course he did, because her father didn't like him, and her father didn't dislike people without reason… but she knew that wasn't true. Her father's initial first reaction to  _anyone_ was usually dislike, until given a reason to grudgingly change his mind, and she was well aware of it. Besides, she was still rattled by what had happened that afternoon, still cross with him, and with herself.

"I don't know," she said, sourly, tearing her gaze away from his, and looking into her mug instead. It was nearly empty. "I barely know you."

Lupin nodded, slowly; she thought there was something terribly sad in his expression, even though she was trying not to look. She took her last sip of coffee, draining the mug, and drew a deep, steadying breath. Despite the storm of warring emotions in her gut, she forced herself to really consider the question that Remus — that Professor Lupin — had asked her.

"I suppose you don't," she said, very quietly. She set the mug down, with finality. It was much louder than her voice was. "That's why I don't understand why you set the assignment you did, to your third years…"

"I'm sorry, Calista," he said, again. "I already tried to offer the same apology to Professor Snape, but I'm afraid he wasn't particularly receptive. I can assure you that, whatever our disagreements have been in the past, I have utmost respect for your father; especially now, that I've seen…"

He trailed off; when she flicked her gaze back up to his tired, kind, familiar face, the suggestion of sadness was more pronounced than ever.

"Now that I've seen you," Remus said quietly, and there was no thinking of him, in that moment, as Professor Lupin; just as she was certain that, to him, she had suddenly become Chloe. "I hoped, of course — but I never really expected…"

His eyes met hers, again. "You do remember, don't you?" he asked, quietly. She nodded; there was no point in lying, now.

"I remember. The — the books. Your name." She tore her gaze away from his, and looked at the surface of the desk. She pointed out letters, from a phantom book. She could remember exactly where they had been, on the page. "R," she said, "E-M-U-S."

"I've thought about that little girl, over the years," Remus said quietly. She didn't look up from the imaginary book; she could still see the letters on the page. She moved her finger, pointed to where the 'C' would have been. "Wondered if she might have had a chance, if she'd been rescued sooner."

Calista moved her finger, on the imaginary page.  _A-L-I-S-T…_

"I hoped she'd end up something close to all right," he said, "But I knew, deep down, the chances were slim; she'd need a miracle, in a world that had grown perilously short of them."

Slowly, Calista moved her finger, back up to the top left corner of her imaginary page.  _A_ , she pointed to, silently.

"It's hard to believe you're the same girl I remember," Remus finally said, haltingly.

Calista drew in a slow breath. She held it for a few seconds, and then let it out, even more slowly.

"If  _you_  remember," Calista finally said, still not looking up. "If  _you_  know how short on miracles the world was, when I — when  _we_ , me and … and…" she swallowed. "Neville Longbottom," she said, quickly letting the rest of her breath out along with the name. "If you knew the kinds of things that happened to us…"

She did look up now; she made her face hard, imagined slamming the imaginary book shut, after all. "How could you ask your students to face a boggart?" she asked, "How could you ask a classroom full of — full of  _war survivors_  to show each other their darkest fears?"

He looked startled, by her question; it was the first time he'd looked anything but mildly kind, or cautious, or sad. Suddenly, she was tired of company, and she wasn't interested in his answer, because it couldn't possibly be good enough.

"Thank you for the coffee," she said, standing up and pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders, " _Professor_ Lupin. I suppose I'll see in you in class, on Tuesday."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

For several days, the nightmares were relentless; she saw her mother, cold eyes glinting, wand raised, saw the terrifying flash of a spell leaving her wand — and when the light-blindness cleared, the only victim in sight was a dead rat, blood spilled over a coating of crunchy autumn leaves.

She'd managed to avoid her father for most of the week; she'd avoided most of her friends too, casting aside their concerned questions, and refusing to discuss anything that wasn't directly related to school work, and she'd studiously avoided Professor Lupin's gaze in class, and when she'd passed him in the corridors.

When Saturday, the day before Halloween, rolled around, and he never sent for her to have her lessons, she realised she'd forgotten to ask him about switching that weekend, about taking Sunday off instead to go to Hogsmeade. She still didn't want to see him, so she waited until after dinner to slither into his quarters, jaw set and eyes unreadable.

"I want to skip my lessons tomorrow," she announced, brazenly and evenly. "I want to go to Hogsmeade instead, to see Gerald."

He would refuse; she knew he would. His refusal, though, would give her another reason to be angry with him, another reason to keep him, emotionally, at arm's length, just as she'd been doing with  _everyone_  since last Sunday, since he'd told her,  _It's too late. The rat is dead._

The truth was that she didn't think she even wanted to see Gerald, anymore; she'd never even answered his last letter, had never even  _opened_  it, but her isolation would be more perversely satisfying if she could blame it on her father, instead of admitting that it was self-imposed. She waited for him to snarl, to forbid her from going into Hogsmeade, gritted her teeth in grim satisfaction, knowing he'd tell her that she could  _not_  skip her lessons, even after what had happened. They would argue; the rift between  _them_  would widen, and she could push him one step further away…

"Very well," Severus said, and his face was just as grim, just as hard, just as unreadable as she knew hers was. "You may have this week off."

"Why?" she challenged.

"I think you know why."

"Tell me." She wanted him to admit that having her attempt the spell had been a mistake; perversely, she wanted him to say,  _You're more like her than I realised_ , even though hearing him say it would surely tear her apart.

"You're a danger," he said, quietly, and she felt her heart sink and soar at the same time; she felt the twisting if snakes in her gut, tasted a terrible, bitter sort of victory — and at the same time, she could feel a cavernous hole opening up, somewhere at her feet or somewhere in her heart. She couldn't tell quite which it was; when she was swallowed up by it, in a moment or in a month, she would know, then.

"Not in the way you'd like to think you are," Severus continued, in the same flat, hard voice. "You accidentally killed a rat during a magic lesson, and you think it says something about your character. I could tell you that students at this school kill a dozen or more rats every year through botched Transfigurations; I could remind you that you've dropped nearly every organ a rat possesses into your cauldron without a second thought, but it would be pointless, just now."

He stood, and leaned forward, bracing himself against the edge of his desk, eyes still betraying nothing. "You know all of that. You know that not a single thing about you is different than it was a week ago; but at the moment, you don't  _want_  to know any of that. You want an excuse to push everyone away; you want an excuse to hurt yourself, without regard to who  _else_  it hurts. If you were seven, you'd be telling me you want to  _go back to the orphanage_."

The words stung; she felt as if he'd slapped her.

"That's not true…" she started; but it was, wasn't it?

"You're a danger, Calista, to the only person you've  _ever_ been a danger to: yourself. After ten years, I suppose I realise that I can't stop you from punishing yourself; but I won't  _help_  you, and I won't let you blame it on me. Take the day off lessons tomorrow, and go see your boyfriend. I'm certain he misses you; I hope you'll let him be kind to you, for his sake as much as yours."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, but of course he did; he  _always_ did.

"I think I do," Severus said, straightening. He took a couple of steps, towards the door that separated his office from his quarters. His voice had softened, but his face was still inscrutable. "Good night, Calista; please come see me when you're ready to talk. Although, if next Sunday rolls around and you still despise me, I do expect to see your for your lessons nonetheless."

"Dad…"

"One more thing," he said, hand on the knob, "I told you once that it wouldn't matter to me if you were a squib or a hippogriff; what makes you think I'd love you any less for being a Ravenclaw?"


	6. Chapter 6

Calista's sleep was restless, plagued by nightmares that she forgot almost as soon as she woke up. She knew she'd dreamed of the rat again, and she had a vague idea that Marcus had been in one of her dreams, although she couldn't possibly imagine why.

She'd dreamed of  _him_ , too, of Sirius Black, dreamed that he'd been trying to force her to fly somewhere on a broomstick. Severus had been at her shoulder, urging her to cast the new spell, to cut Black and make him bleed. She'd raised her wand, and then… and then Severus had turned into Bellatrix, and she'd woken up, fingers curling reflexively, eyes snapping open.

Her roommates were all still sleeping in their beds when she awoke, but Calista had developed a keen sense of time after a lifetime of restless sleep; she knew it was early morning, and judged it to be too early for breakfast, but not too early to give up on the idea of further sleep. She slipped quietly out of bed, willing her racing heart to slow down, and started to rummage as silently as she could through her wardrobe.

She didn't have much, truthfully, that was appropriate for cold weather, besides her school robes, and she didn't want to wear those to Hogsmeade; it wasn't required, though she was supposed to have her Prefect badge visible, even on weekends and even in the village. She withdrew a pair of black trousers and one of her plainer long-sleeved blouses; then her hand knocked into something, and a roll of parchment fell out onto the floor.

She reached down and picked it up, with a mixture of guilt and, unbidden, giddy anticipation. It was Gerald's letter, the one she'd received a couple of days ago and never opened. She stuffed the clothing back in the wardrobe, and climbed back into her bed with the letter, closing the curtains fully and lighting the tip of her wand with a whispered ' _Lumos'_  to read by.

On the outside, the letter had been addressed to her with the rune for  _hummingbird_ , but the text of the letter itself, was in plain English, in Gerald's neat, familiar hand.

_Calista,_

_Your last letter was so wonderful and sweet, but it made me miss you so intensely that it's nearly a physical pain. I don't know if you can possibly understand how much I needed to receive it when I did; I'm dealing with some very unpleasant things lately and I think the only time I smile is when I read your letters._

_I know I shouldn't burden you; I know you have homework, and exams, and those wretched dementors and a hundred other things to worry about, without adding my problems to the list, but I must admit I nearly cried with relief when I saw that you'd sent the Hogsmeade dates. Eight days before I can see you; before I can look into your beautiful eyes and hear your sage advice; before I can hold you and be warmed by you. It suddenly seems so far away, but in the meantime I have your letters, and I have the memory of the last time we kissed; I confess, I've thought of it often, lately. I hope we have the chance, in eight days, to create a new memory in the same vein._

_Please write to me again, if you have time. You can write about anything; any troubles you're having, or anything amusing that's happened lately at Hogwarts. You can send me your homework, if you want; I just want to see your words on the page, and know that you're thinking of me, just as I'm thinking of you._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

Calista felt a rush of heat to her face, and a surge of guilt in her gut; she felt awful, now, for setting his letter aside when she'd received it. It was one thing to avoid him, to push him away, when  _she_  was the one hurting; but it sounded like  _he_  was too, and what must he think, now that she'd gone eight days without writing back, when he'd specifically asked her to?

She re-read the letter, not certain if she should ignore or embrace the jittery, fluttery feeling that filled her when she read the second paragraph.  _Your beautiful eyes_ , he'd written, and even though that made her blush, it was the rest of it that flooded her with something she wasn't ready to name; the thought of being held by him, of warming him, as he'd said… she supposed she'd have to be held very close to achieve that. She closed her eyes, and thought of that, along with the idea of creating a new memory of kissing him, and even miles away and after everything that had happened since she'd last seen him, after all the nightmares she'd faced — even now, she imagined that if he  _was_  holding her, she'd press her mouth against his neck, into the hollow under his chin, against his jaw, until his face was quite as red as hers undoubtedly was, now.

She realised, with a small jolt of surprise, that she wanted all of that very badly, despite the hollow, closed-off way she'd been feeling lately. She wanted to touch him, and kiss him, and feel the warm tickle of his breath as he whispered something in her ear; preferably in French, though she would of course roll her eyes, even as it made her skin feel simultaneously hot and cold…

She rolled the letter back up, and returned to her wardrobe; what she'd picked out earlier simply wouldn't suffice. She renewed her search, for something that would still be warm enough for a chill autumn day, but also would be likely to catch Gerald's eye, and perhaps to make up, in some small way, for not writing him back.

She had a pullover Narcissa had sent two Christmases ago, a dark blue one that was made from a warm, soft, and very expensive-feeling material; she had only worn it once, because it had a low, wide neckline that left her shoulders and her collarbone exposed, and that seemed counterproductive for keeping warm. It seemed, however,  _perfect_  for meeting her boyfriend on a cool autumn day; she suppressed a soft, sly smile at the thought. Undoubtedly, it was precisely what Aunt Narcissa had had in mind when she'd sent it, though she might have been thinking of a different boyfriend.

She chose a short black skirt to go with it; like most things Aunt Narcissa sent these days, it was cut close to her figure, and ordinarily she'd have felt too shy to wear it, but her aunt had also sent an array of coloured tights that were soft enough that Calista could bear to wear them, and she supposed that would make the skirt all right.

After she showered and dressed, she judged it was late enough to go to the Great Hall for breakfast. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she could imagine both her father and Gerald frowning with concern if they knew she'd skipped breakfast, so she went.

She saw Amelia at the Ravenclaw table, so she went there, and sat beside her friend; she noticed her father at the staff table, too, but she wasn't in the mood, yet, to acknowledge him in a friendly manner, so she pretended not to have seen him.

Amelia glanced up as she sat.

"Oh, have you finally decided to stop being a snarly bitch?" Amelia greeted her, sourly; then she did a double-take, her eyes flicking up and down Calista's frame.

"Wow," Amelia said, brightening considerably, and grinning with evident mischief. "Nice outfit. Sexy."

Calista felt herself flush. "Shut up."

"Still bitchy," Amelia observed, "Are you on your period, or something?"

" _No_. Merlin, why do you always have to be so gross?" Calista scowled, and reached for some toast and bacon. "Ugh, just tea again. Why don't they ever have coffee at breakfast?"

"Because you're the only freak that drinks that stuff," Amelia chirped. "You know, you didn't have to dress up just for me."

Calista bit off a corner of toast, and swallowed. "Very funny. Gerald's supposed to meet me in Hogsmeade, remember?"

Amelia smirked knowingly. "Don't be surprised if he tries to take you  _with_  him when it's time to leave; that top's amazing. It looks like you've actually got boobs."

"Amelia!  _Stop it_ , will you? I'm trying to eat." She flicked an uncomfortable glance towards the staff table, and tried to pretend that she wasn't hoping Gerald would think something very similar to what Amelia had just said.

"I wish Endria could come today," Amelia said, a bit mournfully, "I mean, speaking of boobs, she's got some great —"

" _Amelia!_  Gods, my  _father_  is right over there!"

Amelia waved her hand dismissively. "He can't hear us from all the way over there. You worry too much. Anyway, you don't fool me, you can blush and scowl all you want, but I know you're planning on snogging Gerry's face off this afternoon."

Calista blushed, and scowled, and stuffed a slice of bacon in her mouth.

"'Course, you'll probably have to get it out of a book first," Amelia snarked, "And I have a plan for how you can do  _just_  that…"

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Calista murmured, remembering the words of Gerald's last letter. Unless, of course, he'd taken her lack of a response as a sign that he shouldn't come after all; she fervently hoped that wasn't the case.

"It won't be, thanks to me." Amelia smiled slyly, and glanced at her friend again. "You're going to put cosmetics on, right? It'll make you look older; and put some jewelry on too, and do something with your hair."

Calista bared her teeth. "I was  _going_  to do all that," she groused. "But  _thanks_ , Aunt Amelia."

"Aunt?" Amelia quirked a brow.

"You sound like her," Calista retorted. "My Aunt Narcissa; she's always telling me to put on mascara, and perfume, and —"

"Yes, good idea," Amelia said, not at all bothered by Calista's manner. "Perfume; put that on, too."

" _I was going to_. Anything  _else_  you want to order me to do?"

"As a matter of fact," Amelia grinned, "We're going to have to think of a way to ditch Percy once we get into the village; he's  _not_  going to approve of what I have in mind."

Calista swallowed her last bite of breakfast and pushed her plate away. "I'm not even going to ask," she said, "I'm sure I don't want to know. Meet you in the Entrance Hall at ten, all right?"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista was almost relieved to be wearing her cloak over her outfit when she made her way to the Entrance Hall to meet her friends, just in case Amelia was tempted to comment on her appearance again, in front of everyone else.

She'd put on cosmetics and perfume, just like she'd promised Amelia, and a silver pendant and earrings from her aunt. She hadn't been able to make her hair do anything she liked, so she'd just woven it into a quick side plait, a trick she'd borrowed from Penny. It looked all right, though she evidently hadn't done it up tight enough, since she could feel strands falling out around her face already.

Evidently, the dementors weren't the only thing that had changed, in regards to castle security; where before, the older students had been able to simply leave while Filch inspected the permission forms of the younger students, this time he was standing guard at the door, checking names off a list and peering at each of them suspiciously.

It was taking forever; Calista fidgeted, while Filch triple-checked Penny's name against the list in his hand.

"Seriously?" Amelia demanded, "She's been going every weekend for four years, you know she's on the list."

Filch sneered. "Lists can change," he said, "It's my job to make sure this castle is  _secure_ , young lady. Not that any of you ungrateful brats care."

"Nope," Amelia agreed, brightly. "We don't. Glad we could reach an understanding; can you get out of the way now?"

"Hear, hear." someone said, and a couple of people laughed; Calista glanced behind her and saw that it was Percy's younger brothers, the twins, that were laughing. One of them winked roguishly at Amelia, and the other one was grinning.

Her ears perked at the sound of another familiar voice, and her eyes moved past the twins, to the end of the waiting line.

"Staying here, Potter?" her cousin yelled, gleefully. "Scared of passing the dementors?"

Calista frowned, and nudged Percy, who was closest to her.

"We don't  _really_  have to pass the dementors, do we?" she muttered, quietly.

"I don't expect so," Percy said back, mercifully keeping his authoritative tone low, for once. "Not on the way  _out_  of the castle, anyway. Black's trying to sneak in, not out, isn't he?"

Calista frowned; that didn't really put her at ease. Perhaps it was a bad idea to go, after all…

" _Percy_  Weasley," Amelia was saying, leaning over Filch's list and pointing at it. "And Amelia Slater. And me, right there — Calista Snape."

She glanced up at Calista, with a mischievous grin. "You know, in case you need to go to my Head of House for all the sass I'm giving you."

Filch snarled. "I'm  _quite familiar_  with the Snape brat," he said, glaring up at Calista through gritted teeth. Calista snarled back, remembering with satisfaction the time, in her first year, when she'd accidentally kicked him in a very personal zone in her effort to break free from his grip.

"Good," Amelia said, "Then you know she's on the list. Come on, you lot." She stepped back from Filch, and grabbed both Calista and Penny by the edges of their cloaks, practically yanking them through the front doors.

"Oh, you came too, Perce," Amelia added, teasing at disappointment, when all of them had emerged into the crisp fall air outside. "Can't win them all, I guess."

They walked down the steps, and along the winding path to the gate at the edge of the grounds; when they drew close, Calista tensed. A hooded figure was gliding along the fence around the grounds, not very far from the gate.

"Wait," she managed to choke out, around the cold fear that had gripped her already, even from this distance. "Wait until it passes further away."

Amelia grumbled, and Percy frowned, but they all halted.

"Perhaps you can cast your Patronus from here," Penny suggested, "It's not really close enough to affect us, it shouldn't make the cast more difficult."

"I'd rather not," Calista said, evasively. "Erm — it's technically school grounds, you know. No magic in the corridors, and all of that."

"It's hardly a corridor," Penny pointed out, but Percy was nodding earnestly.

"Quite right, Calista; excellent thinking. I'd prefer not to break school rules if it's not strictly necessary."

"Ugh," Amelia sniffed. "Sorry, Perce, but we're  _definitely_  going to need to go our separate ways once we get into the village; I've planned my whole day around breaking school rules."

The dementor had glided far enough away that they decided to make their break for the gates; Calista hurried through, taking care to keep Penny on one side of her and Percy on the other, just in case; both of them, at least, could produce a non-corporeal Patronus, if it was necessary.

She shuddered, and she was positive, even as they left the dementor far behind and continued down the familiar path to Hogsmeade, that the chill that had settled into her bones and her veins was unnatural. She wished she'd thought to bring some chocolate with her.

Finally, they reached the edge of the village; her eyes darted around, looking for a familiar figure; she hardly heard Percy and Amelia bickering, as she searched —  _ah_. Someone evidently had spotted  _her_ ; he rose from the edge of the fountain he'd been sitting on, and started walking towards her.

She felt her heart leap, as she took in his familiar form; his even gait, his neat brown hair, the silver glint of his glasses.

"I sincerely hope you were kidding, about the rule-breaking," Percy was saying, while Amelia scowled; she ignored them, and stepped forward.

"Gerald," she said, happily; she could feel a grin spreading across her face, despite everything. When she reached him, and his arms came around her, she could have sworn that the chill from the dementors was instantly dispelled.

"Calista," he said, and then he loosened his grip, to pull back and look at her, far more seriously than she'd expected. "You came," he said, and she could hear relief in his voice. "I wasn't sure if you would, after all."

"Of course I came. Why  _wouldn't_  I?" She cast aside the thought that she almost hadn't, because she'd forgotten to ask Severus to move her lessons.

A soft frown flickered briefly across his face. "After my last letter... I didn't hear back from you, and I was afraid that perhaps I came on a bit too strong…"

"No," she said, quickly, "I was just —"

"Gerry!" They were interrupted by Amelia, who'd materialised beside them, Penny and Percy trailing a few paces behind. "Tell Percy he's being a bore," she commanded, "You and Calista will come, won't you?"

Gerald blinked, and let his arms drop from Calista with some reluctance. "Come where?" he asked, sounding good-natured as always. "The bookstore?"

Amelia rolled her eyes. " _No_. The pub."

"The Three Broomsticks?" Gerald shrugged, and glanced at Calista. "I suppose we can go there for a little while, if… if that's what Calista wants to do."

"Not  _that_  pub," Amelia grinned. "The Hog's Head. Endria told me it's easy to get served there, they don't care about school rules —"

"But  _I_ do," Percy interjected shrilly, "And they added a stipulation three years ago that  _expressly_  forbids students from drinking anything stronger than butterbeer during school visits!"

"That would be because of Kim Avery," Calista said, recalling how the older girl had become quite drunk during a Hogsmeade visit in her own seventh year; it hadn't been against the rules at the time, so she hadn't gotten in trouble, but Percy was right; it  _was_  against the rules now.

"Which is why we're going to the Hog's Head," Amelia insisted smoothly, "There won't be any teachers there; Endria told me she used to drink an entire bottle of wine —"

Gerald frowned; he looked distinctly unimpressed. "Endria shouldn't have been doing that," he said, "She was Head Girl."

"Don't I know it," Amelia smirked. "Anyway, Gerry, key word:  _was_. Past tense. You're not Head Boy anymore, either, and  _you're_  not on a school trip…"

"All of you are," Gerald said, stiffening. "Amelia, I don't think it's a very good idea…I certainly won't go along with it, though I suppose I can't stop you."

"Well,  _I_  can," Percy said, puffing himself up, "As I'm the  _current_ Head Boy; Penny, Calista, tell her we won't condone this  _flagrant rule breaking_ …"

"Actually," Penny said, a bit sheepishly, "I think I  _would_  like to go — er, just to check it out, of course."

"That's the spirit!" Amelia grinned triumphantly, and then shifted her gaze. "Calista?" she said, expectantly.

"Erm…" Calista was looking at Gerald; he appeared distinctly uncomfortable, and truthfully, she didn't really care one way or the other about going. "I don't think — I mean, I really was hoping to, erm, spend some time with Gerald… you know…  _alone_. So… maybe next time."

 _Probably not then, either_ , she thought, but didn't say. Gerald brightened considerably, and flicked a small, grateful smile in her direction.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine. I was trying to help you out, you know — anyway, Penny and I will catch up with you later. You too, I suppose," she aimed a scowl at Percy.

"See you later," Calista agreed, stepping closer to Gerald again. Percy was watching Penny and Amelia with his mouth agape, disbelief etched into his very freckles, but Gerald's eyes were entirely on her; she thought perhaps he might be eying the Prefect badge pinned to her cloak, and wondered if he expected her to stop Penny and Amelia; but then, Percy was certainly going to try, so she didn't really have to, did she?

"Bye, Gerry!" Amelia called; and then she did one of her double-takes, and grinned mischievously. "Yeah, she looks good, doesn't she?" she threw back, over her shoulder. "Wait until you see what she's got on  _under_ that cloak."

"Amelia!" Calista scowled, feeling her cheeks burning. "Can't you ever just  _shut up_?"

Amelia only grinned and waved in response, and then she looped her arm through Penny's and they set off down the narrow, cobbled street. Percy stormed after them, spluttering something about rules and repeating that he  _was Head Boy, after all_.

"Don't worry," Calista managed, hardly daring to look at Gerald directly after Amelia's outburst, "You were never like  _that_ , when you were Head Boy…"

"Good," Gerald said, though he didn't sound particularly concerned, either way. "So… shall we go to the bookstore, then, or… or did you mean what you said about… about spending time alone?"

She  _did_  flick a shy glance up to him now. "I haven't seen you since August," she retorted, "Of  _course_  I meant what I said."

Gerald grinned, and reached for her hand. "I'm really glad to hear you say that," he said, "I was afraid… after my last letter…"

He was leading her down a side street, one with more houses than businesses; she thought she might have come this way once or twice before. If she remembered right, it came out somewhere near the train station.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

"No, no,  _I'm_  the one that ought to be sorry," Gerald said, quickly. "I shouldn't have — I just — the ribbon, you know, and then I got carried away, I think…"

"The ribbon?" Calista chanced a tiny smile. "You… you liked that, then?"

He smiled sheepishly, and reached a hand into his pocket; he wasn't wearing a cloak, but had a thick button-up sweater on over his Muggle clothes instead. She could see one of his collared shirts that she liked poking out of the neck, only this time all of the buttons on it appeared to be fastened, against the chill air.

Gerald opened his hand, revealing her yellow hair ribbon, coiled in his palm. "I… I've been keeping it with me," he said, very quietly. She could see the hint of a blush in his cheeks, and suddenly she felt quite warm, herself.

"I'm glad you liked it," she managed.

"I did. It's funny, though… you always say you're not the romantic type, and then you go and think of something like that…"

"I suppose maybe it's catching," she said, "Comes of having a boyfriend who writes half of his letters in French…"

"No poems, though," he said, very seriously. "You won't let me send you those."

"That's right," she said, quite firmly. "I won't."

They were nearing the end of the narrow road, now; ahead, she could see the shape of the train platform, and the edge of the woods beyond.

"The village limits extend about three metres past the tree line," Gerald told her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "I studied the maps very carefully… and I studied the rules that were printed on the back of the paper you sent. Anything within the village limits is allowed."

"I… I like the sound of that," she murmured, and when he looked at her with wide eyes, she couldn't help but add, mischievously: "Studying, I mean."

Gerald frowned, a crease appearing in his forehead. "We don't have to go there," he said, quickly, "I only thought — I mean, that was before I even wrote back to you that I was studying the map… perhaps it wasn't a good idea..."

"It is a good idea," she said, feeling her heart began to speed up, in a way that she didn't find unpleasant or unnerving at all. "And — Gerald, there was nothing wrong with your letter. I just… I didn't actually read it until this morning."

"You didn't?"

She shook her head, as they crossed the clearing by the platform. "I was — well. Something's been upsetting me, and… and you know how I am, what I do. I didn't want to see anything nice that you'd written, when I was so intent on feeling alone."

He glanced at her, the frown of concern deepening. "I still don't understand how that makes you feel any better."

"I suppose it doesn't; but it's what I  _do_."

They'd reached the edge of the small patch of woods, now, that was still part of the village. Gerald hesitated, just beyond the tree line, still in plain sight of anyone who walked to the end of the road. So far, no one else had.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, and Calista shook her head, quickly.

"No," she said, "I want — I want everything you said, in your letter. I want to… to be close to you, and to kiss you, and… and if you want to talk to  _me_  about what you've been dealing with, I want to try my best to give you good advice."

"I do want to talk to you," Gerald said, earnestly, "But perhaps — perhaps some of the other things, first?"

She felt herself blushing again, as she looked him up and down; now that they were alone, and she was really looking at him, she was reminded  _again_  of how nice he looked, in Muggle clothes. She took one step further into the stand of woods, and then she reached for him, putting her hands at the back of his neck, and pulling him closer.

She didn't have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him; he was already at precisely the right height, and her mouth found his easily.

"Wait," Gerald said, a bit breathlessly, as he paused a few minutes into their kissing, and met her gaze.

"Am I… is this too much?" she asked; after all, it  _had_  been awhile since they'd been together, perhaps she ought to have eased into things a bit more slowly, despite what he'd written.

"No," Gerald said, "There's just — there's something I want to know."

"What?"

His hands moved from her shoulders slowly up either side of her neck, and stopped to cup her face gently, from both sides. He leaned forward, and dropped a sweet, light kiss on the tip of nose.

"What  _are_  you wearing, under that cloak?" he murmured; she knew her cheeks were on fire; she wondered if steam would come off them, if he moved his hands.

"Just — they're just normal clothes," she muttered, but she took her hands off him to fumble with the clasp of her cloak, anyway. "Amelia's just — she's always starting trouble."

He removed his hands from her face when she spoke, and she took the unencumbered moment to remove her cloak, and drape it over her arm. When she looked back up at him, there was something different in his face, in his eyes — something that tugged at a sense of the familiar, but that she couldn't quite place, in the moment. At any rate, he wasn't fixated on her face, anymore… his eyes travelled her up and down, in much the same way she'd done to him, only a few moments ago.

" _Merlin_ ," he said, not entirely different from the way that Amelia had done, earlier that morning. "You look — incredible. Enchanting. I can't stop looking."

She couldn't possibly get any redder; she reached for his hands, absurdly wanting him to kiss hers, for some reason, even though it was corny. "No French?" she teased.

"I — I think I forgot the words," he managed, and he did lift one of her hands to his mouth now, and kiss her fingers softly. Then, almost abruptly, he'd pulled her close again, and kissed her mouth, prying her lips apart gently with his own. He'd let go of her hands, and she felt one arm slip around her waist; the other hand was on her shoulder, where the neckline of her pullover left it exposed. She felt his finger trace lightly across the top of her shoulder, up the side of her neck, and back down again; she shivered, not at all from the chill, which she hardly felt at all anymore.

She hardly recalled that she'd been kissed, and held, with this sort of intensity before — couldn't even remember that she'd once responded to a different boy doing nearly the same thing with nerves, and uncertainty, because she didn't feel either of those things just then, at least not in a bad way. But then, she was nearly two years older than she'd been, then, and Gerald had a particular touch — light and gentle and achingly sweet — that  _was_  something entirely unique to being with him.

She wrapped one of her arms around him, too, near the middle of his back, and used it to pull herself even closer against him, and almost without a conscious decision, her other hand found its way to his jaw, and then his neck, tracing her way along and down, until she reached the collar of his shirt. Boldly, she undid the top button, the one that was visible above the top edge of his sweater, and when he didn't protest — didn't do anything except continue kissing her — she undid the top button of his sweater, too, and then the second button of his shirt. She slipped her fingers into the opening, tracing the shape of his collarbone, and he started, slightly.

She paused, afraid she'd gone too far; and then  _his_  fingers moved, from her shoulder to  _her_  collarbone, and he ran them lightly across it. She stilled, holding her breath without quite meaning to; suddenly, she wanted his fingers to wander a little further, to slip underneath the edge of her top… but they didn't; they remained politely, agonisingly, within the safe zone of her skin that was exposed by the top's neckline.

She pulled gently back from their kiss, and a puff of steam filled the air between their faces; without giving herself time to think about doing what had just occurred to her, she ducked her head slightly, and pressed her mouth to the hollow at the middle of his collarbone; she could feel his pulse, quick and steady under her lips, and it set her own racing, again.

And then, she felt his chin tuck down over the top of her head, and his arms shifted, to encompass her, holding her tightly against him, and he was murmuring something, very quietly, above her ear.

" _Mon colibri,_ Calista, I —" she felt him swallow. "I've missed you," he finished; she had the distinct impression that he'd almost said something else.

"I've missed you too," she murmured, nestled between the flaps of his collar, mouth still against the hollow at the base of his throat. She borrowed a phrase from their first romantic meeting, in the restricted section of the library: "Almost  _impossibly_ so."

Something shifted, and she wasn't sure which of them had initiated it, but gradually, the mood eased, and when she shifted her weight, and resettled against him, his arms still securely around her, most of the pressing, eager sexuality of their embrace had drained away, and they were — well, they were just cuddling, against the frigid autumn air, and that was pleasing too, in a different and admittedly more familiar way.

After a few moments, Gerald reluctantly released her. His cheeks were pink, and she caught his eyes roving briefly to where his hands had been too polite to go; when he realised he'd been caught, he muttered something about her cloak, and bent down to retrieve it from the forest floor. She hadn't even realised she'd dropped it.

He made to settle it about her shoulders, but she took it from him, instead, and gestured to the ground, strewn with leaves and pine needles.

"We could — I mean, if you wanted to stay here, and talk in private — we might as well sit on this, since it's already got bits of leaves all over it from when I dropped it."

Gerald flashed a frown of concern. "Won't you be cold?"

She smirked, gently. "Not if we stay very close; that is what you wrote, after all…"

Gerald sucked in a breath, and then let it out in a sweet, awkward chuckle. "You're getting  _much_  better at flirting," he teased, and she took that as consent to spread the cloak on the ground, and reached for his hands, guiding him gently down to sit beside her.

He leaned with his back against the trunk of a tree, and she settled into his side, tucking her head neatly against his shoulder, and drawing her legs close to her body, for warmth; despite their softness and deceptive opacity, the tights were letting a bit of the chill in, after all. As if he knew, his arm came around her, pulling her snugly close, and he rested his hand against her knees, blocking much of the chill.

They enjoyed several minutes of companionable silence, until Gerald sighed heavily, rubbing his thumb idly against her knee.

"He's writing to me again," Gerald said, and Calista knew immediately who he meant. "Asking me all sorts of questions. Not just what I've been up to, but about Terry and Mum, too."

"Don't answer him," Calista said, immediately; if she'd had a choice, all those years, to ignore Bellatrix's unwanted communication, she certainly would have.

"I have to," he said grimly, "Especially now, with Terry at Hogwarts; he was able to write to  _me_  that way, and if I don't keep up my end of the bargain, I've no doubt he'll make good on his threats and track Terry down the same way."

Calista frowned. "How  _is_  he writing to you, anyway?" she asked, "Now that  _you're_  not at Hogwarts?"

"I rented a box at the post office, in Manchester," he said, "The Muggle one. He asked me to send the letters that way, instead of by owl. I can't imagine why, except simply to make things more difficult and inconvenient for me."

"Isn't he a wizard?"

"Yes; that's why I think he's only doing it to try my patience. I think he wants me to to slip up, to neglect writing him back, so he has an excuse to go after Terry."

"Manchester is near where I live," Calista mused, "Not anywhere near where  _you_  live."

"Yeah. I Apparate as close as I can, but it's still a good twenty minute walk to the post office; I suppose I should have looked a bit longer, found one with a closer Apparition point, but I was afraid to leave him waiting too long, without an address to reach me at. Didn't want to use one of the post offices in London; he doesn't know that's where we are, and I didn't want to give him any clues."

"How often does he expect you to write him?"

"Within two days of him writing me; three at most. Lately, he's been writing two or three times a week."

Calista lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked at him directly.

"So that's… what, an hour to read his letters and to write some sort of reply, and then — what, a two hundred and fifty kilometre Apparition, followed by a twenty minute walk, two or three times a week — and Muggle post costs money, doesn't it?"

"Not very much," Gerald reassured her, "But yes, it's draining; emotionally more than anything else. I have to take time off work, to make it to the post office in time. I'm always afraid I've forgotten to address some point in one of his letters — he expects me to answer anything he asks that won't betray our location — and lately, I can't sleep, for wondering if I've slipped up somehow, either told him too much or not enough. Sometimes I'm too tired to Apparate safely, and then I take the train; that's another couple of hours; another missed work shift."

"Gerald…"

He sighed again. "So you can see why it's like a ray of sunlight, whenever I get a letter from  _you_ ; the night you sent the ribbon, I held on to it all night; it still smelled like you, like that apple blossom scent you wear. I think that was the only night recently that I had a decent sleep."

She frowned, and shifted slightly, so she could look at him more easily. "Did you mean what you wrote," she asked, cautiously, "About wanting to hear my advice?"

He nodded, earnestly. "Yes; very much. Though, if it's to stop writing him back, I can't follow it."

"You can't keep doing what you're doing, either," she pointed out, as gently as she could. "Like you said, you're missing work — and since you never told me which internship you decided on, I'm guessing you haven't got the time for that, on top of everything else, have you?"

"I missed the deadline," he said, very sadly and very quietly, "To accept one; and you're right, I haven't got the time. Mum's hospital has been cutting hours. She might lose her job altogether; she needs my help. I need to work, as much as I can."

"What about your father?" Calista asked, "Doesn't he — I mean, Amelia told me, her aunt and uncle, when they were divorced — she has younger cousins. Doesn't he have to send money to your mother, to help with housing, and things for Terry, since he's still not of age?"

Gerald chuckled, but it was utterly devoid of humour. "That's one of the things you agree to give up on pursuing, when you file for protection with the Obfuscation Office — and even if it wasn't, where would he get money to send to her? He hardly works. Can't hold a job, hasn't since I was four or five — and what little he  _does_  manage to earn, I imagine he spends at the pub before he ever makes it home."

Calista swallowed; she'd heard of such things, of alcoholism and of people who abused potions for their side effects, but she'd never encountered it directly.

"He… drinks?" she ventured, "I mean — a lot?" That explained why Gerald had looked so uncomfortable, when Amelia had suggested going to the pub to try and be served alcohol; she was suddenly very glad that she'd refused to go.

"Yes," Gerald said, tightly. "A lot."

"Is that… is that what made him so…" she trailed off; she realised partway through her question that it wasn't one that was fair to ask him, since she wouldn't want to answer it, herself, about her mother.

"I don't really know," Gerald said, in the same taut, quiet voice, "Which came first — the drinking, or the abuse — but they always came together."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she snuggled closer to him, instead, and laid her hand over his; in response, he turned his head, and kissed her forehead, almost idly. She saw his eyes close, and he inhaled deeply; she knew a steadying breath when she heard one, and allowed a small, worried frown, though he couldn't see it.

"What sorts of things does he ask you about?" Calista wondered, after a few moments had passed. It was hard to imagine what someone like Gerald's father might want to know… Bellatrix had always fixated on the Dark Lord, on turning Calista one way or another towards his service, but it didn't sound like Gerald's father was driven by the same motives.

"Everything," Gerald said, "Work, mine and Mum's. Terry's classes. My exam scores. My friends, my cousins, my uncles. Oh, and he keeps asking, quite derisively, if I've got a boyfriend; since I kept saying there wasn't a particular girl I fancied whenever he asked, he's decided I must be gay."

"Erm… I suppose he hasn't asked you about that  _recently_ , then…"

"Oh, he has," Gerald said, "I'm not telling him about you. I don't want him asking about you, writing about you… he'll just try to twist it, try to ruin it. Or worse, he'll try to write to you, just to get at me."

"Let him try," Calista suppressed a low growl. "I'll tell Lucerne to claw his eyes out; or I'll follow her, and do it myself. Good luck torturing you with all his letters  _then_..."

Gerald smiled wanly. "Only you," he said, affectionately, "Could manage to sound charming while threatening violence."

"Only  _you_  would think I'm not serious, and find it charming," she countered, and then she frowned, eying him earnestly. "Gerald… you really can't let him keep doing this to you. Your future… your internships… I mean, you scored  _ten_  N.E.W.T. levels. That's practically unheard of; you could be doing  _anything_ you want, and instead of doing any of it, you're spending your time catering to  _him_."

"I can apply again for an internship next year," Gerald said, "Plenty of people do it… take a year off after Hogwarts…"

"Will you, though?" Calista challenged, quietly. "Terry's got four years of school left after this; it doesn't sound like your father's going to relent any time soon, especially not if he's getting what he wants out of you. Will you just keep this up, until Terry graduates? Or even  _past_  then? Travelling practically across the country three times a week to write to him, and wasting your talent working in a  _bookstore_?"

Gerald flushed. "I don't really have a  _choice_. What am I supposed to do?"

"How about any of the things you said you  _wanted_  to do?" Calista said, "You could be a curse-breaker, or a healer, or a researcher. You could be an Auror, an Obliviator, an inventor — you could do  _anything_. It's… he's essentially holding you hostage, Gerald; you can't let him control you anymore, not now that you've finally gotten away."

Perhaps she wasn't entirely talking only to him, with that last point; perhaps her words were meant for  _herself_ , too… perhaps in some way, she was referring, not only to Gerald's predicament, but to her own… her continued nightmares, the creeping fear that perhaps she had more in common with her mother than she'd realised. She forced the image of the mangled, dead rat aside, for the hundredth time.

"I don't… I don't say this often of you, Calista, but in this case, you couldn't possibly understand…"

"Oh? You think I don't?" She felt herself pulling away from him, and at first he allowed it; then, he frowned, and pulled her close again, leaning in and speaking quietly.

"I know you understand the fear," he said, softly, "And I know you're trying to help; and as awful as all of the things your mother did to you were… as much as she deserves to be locked up…"

Calista felt herself start to tremble; something felt close, dangerous. She imagined the great black hole opening up in front of her feet, just as she'd imagined it last night in her father's office.

"She  _is_  locked up," Gerald said, and it wasn't quite what she'd expected him to say. "She can't — she can't write to you — she can't try to follow you back home…"

Calista pulled away from him again, starting to rise; she could feel herself teetering on the edge of that imaginary hole. She had to take a step back, because taking a step forward would send her much further along than a single pace; going forward would be irreversible.

"Please," Gerald said, and she could see in his face that he desperately wanted her to to stay; he reached for her hands, catching them in his, and keeping her from standing up, unless she decided to try and pull him along with her. "I'm sorry; I'll stop talking about it."

"You're right," Calista heard herself saying; she'd stepped right into the hole despite her fear, and she could hardly believe the words were coming out. If her hands were free, she might have brought them to her face, tried to stuff the words back in her mouth. "She can't follow me, anymore — but she could, and she  _did_ , until the day I turned seventeen. Only it wasn't a letter I could refuse to open, she was in my  _mind_. So don't — don't tell me I don't understand..."

If Gerald had let go of her hands just then, she would have turned and run away; she would have made a beeline for the castle, for the secret room on the seventh floor, and she would have probably tried to move in to it, whatever form it took, until her father inevitably came looking.

He didn't let go, though; instead, Gerald's grip tightened, and he renewed his effort to pull her gently down, beside him; she was tired, suddenly, of always pulling away, and she stopped resisting, and ended up sitting in front of him, just barely protected from the cold ground beneath by the edge of her cloak.

"What do you mean, Calista?" he asked, quietly, and she was suddenly tired of keeping secrets too; at least, of keeping so many.

"Do you know how good of an Occlumens I really am?" she asked him, quietly, instead of answering directly. "I'm…  _very_  good. I've read every book about the art there is, and not one of them describes anything I can't do…"

"But — then have you read Woolley? Multiple defensive layers?" Gerald ventured, just as quietly; she couldn't quite tell if he was afraid, or impressed.

"Yes," she said, answering his questions in order, "Since I was eight."

"Merlin's beard;  _seriously_?"

"Yes, seriously," she said. "And it's because I've  _had_  to be that good. My…  _her_ … she did something to me, when I was small — a kind of curse, I guess you could say; it was tied into my Trace, somehow, and it couldn't be lifted until the Trace was — until I turned seventeen. It allowed her to reach me with legilimency, to speak to me. Mostly through nightmares, but a few other times, too… she used to try and make me remember… to make me relive…  _things_ … that she had done."

Gerald's eyes had gone wide behind his glasses; he squeezed her hands. "But that's… modifying the Trace... something like that would take  _extraordinarily_  Dark magic to do… surely, someone in the Ministry must have noticed, must have been able to do  _something_."

Calista laughed, darkly and without humour. "Oh, I think they'd have done  _something_  all right, if they knew about it; probably locked me up with her, just in case. The Ministry doesn't exactly look kindly upon me as it is. I'm barred from ever touching a Time Turner, did you know? They seem to think I might use it to free her… imagine what they'd have thought, if they knew she was in my mind, asking me to do just that… but I did get very good at blocking her. By the time the curse finally broke, it was more of a symbolic freedom than anything else."

Symbolic was a good word for it, she thought; after all, even though the curse was gone, she still had the scars… but she'd already told him too much. She'd found a ledge, halfway down the dark hole of truth-telling she'd thrown herself down, and she was hanging on to it for dear life, refusing to go any further down.

"No one really knows," she told him, "No one except my father, and… Professor Dumbledore, because it would have been a security risk for the school if I  _couldn't_  block her… and now, you."

Gerald swallowed. "I don't understand how you can be so strong."

"Well, I told you; I had to, to keep her out…"

"That's not really what I meant," Gerald said, "Not just… not just with Occlumency. With  _everything_. I think… if it were me, if I'd gone through that… I would have broken. I feel like I'm nearly there, now."

Calista leaned forward slightly, and shifted. "I feel…  _nearly_  there all the time. That's usually when I… when I start avoiding people… but so far I always find my way back out, from feeling that way, and so will you. For… for the same reason: because we're not alone, either one of us. And because… well, frankly, we're both very stubborn. I think that helps, too."

"I wish I was half as strong, or as stubborn, as you are," Gerald said, "Maybe then I'd know what to do, about my father's letters…"

"I think you  _are_ just as stubborn as I am," Calista said, shrewdly. "The thing about  _stubborn_ , though, is it's not always good. Sometimes it causes you to keep doing something you really shouldn't, just because you think you have to."

She could see immediately that he knew precisely what she meant; he frowned, and let go of one of her hands to adjust his glasses.

"I  _do_  have to, though; It's not just me I need to think about, I have Mum and Terry to worry about…"

"As far as I can tell, you're  _only_ worrying about them," Calista said, a bit sternly. She made an effort to inject some measure of softness into her tone, once she realised how it sounded. "There has to be another solution, Gerald. Some way to keep your family safe without sacrificing your own ambitions. We'll find it."

Gerald opened his mouth; she could see that he was going to protest, so she reached her free hand up, and placed her finger gently against his mouth, silencing him.

"Not just for your sake," she said, with finality. "For everyone's — the world needs you to finish working out that Armour Charm."

Beneath her finger, Gerald's mouth spread into a small smile, despite himself. He seized her hand with both of his now, and pressed a kiss to it; then he took up her other hand, and kissed that, too.

"You know," he said, "I try to imagine what you might say, sometimes, if I could talk to you when you're not there; and I never manage to come up with anything half as good as the real thing. I wish I could take you with me, when I leave here — my very own dose of  _Felix Felicis_."

"Funnily enough, Amelia predicted you might be tempted to take me with you; but she, erm — said it for a different reason."

She glanced down, at her outfit, blushing slightly at the memory of what Amelia had said, and of the way he'd looked her over… and then, when she looked back up, he was looking her over again, in exactly the same way.

"She's… not wrong," he said, and he was blushing again now, too. She suppressed a grin at the sight of it; Merlin, he was  _so goddamn cute_. Speaking of being tempted, she had half a mind to cuddle back up to him, and start kissing him again, every bit as eagerly and fervently as she'd done earlier, from his collarbone right up to his mouth… but the sunlight through the trees was the red-gold of late afternoon, and their time was running out.

"I suppose I should start walking you back towards the village centre," Gerald said, regretfully, as if he'd just noticed the same thing. "Seven weeks, until the next Hogsmeade weekend. They never seemed so far apart, before."

They both rose, reluctantly, and Gerald picked up Calista's cloak, brushing it off quite thoroughly, before settling it around her shoulders. She reached up and clasped it, checking that her Prefect badge was still attached.

"I'll write you," Calista promised, as they set off across the clearing by the platform, and started up the narrow side street that led back into the village proper. "Every day, if you want."

"Well, as often as you can," Gerald said, "Please don't let it interfere with your homework; not only because it's important, but also because I'm fairly certain your father would have my head if it did."

"He really likes you, you know. I mean, as much as he likes anyone."

"Good," Gerald said, "I'd like to keep it that way."

They held hands during the walk back into the village; as they neared the centre, more and more students came into sight, entering and exiting the shops and milling about in small groups. Calista looked around for her friends, and though she saw Daisy, Eva, and Sofia, she didn't see Penny, Percy, or Amelia. They might still be at the pub, or they might have gone back already. She frowned; she supposed she ought to wait for them, in case they  _did_ have to pass the dementors on the way back to the castle.

"I almost forgot to ask," Gerald said, interrupting her worried reverie, as they approached the fountain at the centre of the village square, "How's your Patronus Charm coming along? Have you managed to conjure it near the dementors?"

"Erm," Calista hedged. "Not exactly."

"You ought to try," he said, anxiously, "Perhaps when there's a professor around; or you can try conjuring one at a bit of a distance; that should make it easier."

Calista paused, and so did he. She looked over at him, and lowered her voice. "I… uhm, I can't… I can't produce one at all, anymore," she admitted.

Gerald blinked. "What?"

"I keep trying," she said, quickly. "But it's not… I just can't. It's like when I was first learning, I get a little wisp of silver and not much else; only it's not getting any better with practise…"

He was frowning now, visibly concerned. "That  _can_  happen," he said, "Particularly after a traumatic event… well, you know, you read Sparkman, too. Do you suppose it has to do with… with the news article, over the summer?"

"Erm," Calista hesitated; she hadn't told him about the recovered memory. She was afraid to — what if he wanted to know what it was about? "Something… something like that, maybe," she settled for.

"Well, what does your father think?"

"Nothing," she said, with a flash of irritation. "I haven't told him, obviously. He'd never let me come here alone, if he knew —"

Gerald's face hardened. He interrupted her, possibly for the first time ever. "He  _shouldn't_ ," he said, shaking his head, "Not if you can't — how did you get here today? What if one of them had come after you?"

"I waited until the… until the gate was clear," she said, letting go of his hand, and taking a step back, though she kept her voice lowered. "And I went between Percy and Penny… they can both produce a non-corporeal one, now."

"A non-corporeal Patronus is very likely not strong enough to ward off a dementor, and you  _know_  that," Gerald was almost scolding her now; she scowled, not at all pleased with the turn of conversation. "Come on then, I'm walking you all the way to the gate, to make sure you get back safely. Did you at least tell Percy or Penny that you can't produce one anymore?"

"No. I haven't told  _anyone_. I'm just trying to get it back, as quickly as I can —"

"Calista, that's…that's wildly irresponsible of you," he said, and suddenly she could imagine why he'd been chosen as Head Boy; he was beginning to remind her of Percy. "Not only for  _your_  safety, but for theirs - what if they were depending on  _you_  being able to conjure one, if a dementor came close?"

"They saw what happened on the train," she said, defensively, even though part of her knew he was right. "Anyway, the dementors aren't supposed to bother us. They're supposed to be looking for  _him_ , not harassing students…and besides, there were  _third years_  leaving the gates right after us, it's not like any of them can produce a Patronus, but no one's taking issue with that."

Gerald pressed his mouth into a grim line.

"Well, perhaps they should be. I'm not convinced that the dementors can be trusted to do only what they're  _supposed_  to," he said, "Especially not after what you told me happened on the train. There's a book I think you should read, called  _Shadow Servants_. It's a history of the Ministry's alliance with the dementors, and it's quite fraught with concerning incidents. I cited several of them in my letters to the Board of Governors and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I'm not satisfied based on the response I received that they really understand the danger the dementors' presence poses to students."

Calista softened, feeling a tingle of nerves along her spine at his words, and also, admittedly, a surge of grateful admiration that he'd actually found the time to keep his word and petition the Ministry about the dementors, despite everything else he'd been dealing with, lately.

She squeezed his hand. "All right," she said, "I'll be careful, and I'll… I'll ask someone to help me with the Charm. Maybe I'll practise with Percy, he's both a very good tutor and a very insufferable one."

They reached the gate without incident; there was a cluster of students already waiting to get back through, and even though Filch was standing guard with his clipboard, there weren't any dementors, this time.

"Promise me," Gerald said quietly, once they'd reached the line of students, "You'll get help practising the Charm, and you'll ask your father, or someone else who can produce a Patronus, to walk through the gates with you."

"I've already said I'd practise."

More students were arriving now, and Calista and Gerald stepped to the side of the gate, allowing the rest of them to go through.

"Promise me," he repeated, stubbornly, forehead creased with anxiety. "You've got to tell your father about your Patronus, and until you get it back, you've got to come with someone who can produce a full-strength Patronus. I… I won't come to see you, if you won't promise me that. I won't put you in danger."

" _All right_ ," she snapped, filled with irritation that he had to extract such a promise from her, that she couldn't just get the damn charm to work the way it had before. "I'll come with someone. I promise."

He nodded, and reached for her other hand, so he held onto both of them. Most of the rest of the students had already gone through the gate, and the sun was balanced on the edge of the horizon now, poised to go down.

"Calista…"

His eyes locked with hers, and his expression was still quite serious, but something in it had changed. He looked nervous and hopeful at the same time; it rather looked like he was trying to pluck up his courage for something. He opened his mouth, and took a short, shaky breath.

"Calista, I —"

" _Miss Snape_ ," he was interrupted, suddenly, by a sulky growl from the caretaker. He brandished his clipboard towards them. "If you're planning on sleeping in the castle tonight, you'd better get through that gate before I lock it. And you, Boot — go on, get lost."

Gerald let out a breath and released her hands, nodding towards the gate, which FIlch had now made a show of grabbing on to the latch of. "Go on," he said, "I'll see you in seven weeks, I suppose."

"You were… you were going to tell me something," she said, ignoring an aggrieved grunt from Filch, and a queer, jittery feeling in her gut; the latter wasn't precisely unpleasant.

"It's all right," Gerald said, and suddenly his face had gone quite blank. "It'll keep. Go ahead in and enjoy the feast. I'll write you tomorrow."

"I —"

" _Miss Snape!_ "

"All  _right_ ," she growled, rounding on Filch. "I heard you the first time, I'm  _coming!_ "

"Ungrateful, miserable little wretch," Filch snarled, latching the gate behind her as she went through.

"Takes one to know one," she shot back darkly.

Behind her, she heard the faint  _pop_  of Gerald Disapparating. Seven weeks really did seem like quite a long time. She wondered if he'd still remember, then, whatever it was that he'd been about to say; she wondered if, after he had time to think about everything she'd told him that day, he'd still want to say it.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

At the Ravenclaw table, Amelia and Penny both looked quite put-out, and Percy was sitting at the Gryffindor table with his arms crossed and his jaw set; she supposed he'd been successful, then, in dissuading them from going to the pub. She'd have to ask Amelia later how that had gone, but for now, Sofia was waving her over to a seat she'd saved; no doubt she wanted to ask Calista more questions about the Prefect patrols.

The food, as always, was plentiful and quite good. Calista found that, after an entire day spent out of doors, she was ravenous, and she ate quite a bit more than she normally did. She realised she was feeling much better than she had been when she'd woken up that morning; perhaps her mood was even charitable enough that she could consider going to see her father after the feast.

She glanced up towards the high table, and reconsidered almost instantly; her father looked positively waspish. He kept shooting withering glances further down the table. She followed his gaze, and frowned, in puzzlement. There was nothing amiss, that she could see. Everyone  _else_  seemed to be having a good time; even Professor Lupin, who was normally quite reserved, was engaged in an animated conversation with Professor Flitwick.

Once, she saw Remus — no, Professor Lupin — make an effort to include her father in the conversation. She couldn't hear what they were speaking about from this distance, but he said something to her father, who only nodded tightly, and appeared to hiss a short reply before turning away and reaching almost sulkily for a goblet of wine nearby.

Even some of the students appeared to have noticed Severus' sour mood; Eva nudged her during the sweets course, muttering "What's  _his_  problem, today?"

"No idea," Calista said, a bit sourly, "But statistically speaking, it's probably something to do with me."

The feast began wrapping up; students were beginning to rise reluctantly from the demolished feast before them. Calista stood too, sparing another swift, questioning glance towards the high table; and then, a derisive, all-too-familiar shout carried through the crowd.

"The dementors send their love, Potter!" her cousin called, gleefully; she narrowed her eyes and caught him up, tapping his shoulder to get his attention.

"Draco," she said, quietly, "That's enough."

"Excuse me?" Draco frowned; he looked towards the exiting students, and then back at her. "Come on, what do you care? It's only Potter."

"I don't care who it is," Calista continued, "I'm tired of hearing you treat the dementors as if it's all some grand joke. They're — Draco, they're dangerous, and it's — and I —"

"They're only dangerous to criminals," Draco retorted, "And to nutters like Potter — he  _fainted_  on the train, didn't you hear?"

Calista sucked in a breath; students streamed around them.

"They're dangerous," she repeated, after she'd almost decided not to say anything else at all, "How very fortunate you are, Draco, to be in a position where you don't understand how."

Draco's expression shifted; he frowned, and for a moment, she thought she'd actually managed to reach him. And then, Vincent shifted impatiently beside him, and he glanced back to each of his friends in turn; when he looked back at Calista, his expression was smooth and unconcerned. He looked more like Lucius than he ever had before.

"Good night, Calista," he said, in a tone that was only a hairsbreadth away from dismissive. "Happy Halloween."

He swept out of the Hall, with Vincent and Gregory in tow. Only Gregory glanced back, wearing a questioning frown.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus pushed his food around on his plate, nerves taught and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He glanced surreptitiously down the table, towards Lupin.

Had he taken the potion? He should have stayed, watched him drink it the way he had last month, but  _this_  time… it had been an uncomfortable jolt, seeing Lupin closeted up with Potter; for a moment he'd thought wildly that he'd managed to time travel, that he'd caught the two of them plotting his murder…

But the picture had been jarring and irreconcilable from the beginning; where Lupin was going tired and grey, Potter was frozen in time, youthful arrogance clinging to him like a second skin. Not  _James_  Potter then, only his blasted spawn; and then Potter had looked at him, and those familiar green eyes had pierced him, bitten into his flesh.

 _You should drink that directly, Lupin,_  he'd managed to remind him, but he hadn't been able to stay and make certain he did; not with so many ghosts crowding the room. He'd taken his leave, careful not to turn his back on death.

And now, despite what Severus knew him to really be, Lupin was sitting at the very same table, smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world, reaching for a second helping of beef.

"It is rewarding,' Lupin said, to Filius, "To see a student take a particular interest in your subject. Why, just last week I received an extra credit essay from Neville Longbottom on the topic of hinkypunks, and we're not meant to start on them until next week."

"Couldn't agree more," Filus agreed brightly, waving his fork in the air. "Nothing delights me more than to encourage an inquiring mind! Fortunately, being the Head of Ravenclaw, I'm surrounded by them! Of course, they're not  _all_  in Ravenclaw, mind you."

"No," Lupin said, still smiling. "In fact, I had a very interesting conversation just this afternoon with another of my third year Gryffindors…"

Severus narrowed his eyes and stabbed a morsel of chicken on his plate rather more forcefully than was necessary. Lupin was certainly in high enough spirits; but with Flitwick between them and the Headmaster and the forced promise of secrecy on on his other side, he couldn't very well ask him about the potion.

He wasn't hungry; or he was so filled with apprehension and with the past that he couldn't feel his hunger over the roiling feeling in his gut. He set his fork down, put his palms against the edge of the table, ready to leave it.

And then, Filius said something that caught his attention; he heard his daughter's name, and his ears perked, eyes swivelling back in his colleagues' direction without him deciding they would.

"Brilliant mind," Filius was saying, "Inquisitive and inventive. Unquestionably talented, too. Needed a bit of direction in the beginning, but the brightest ones usually do."

"She certainly is bright," Remus agreed, "And, I'm told, possesses the ability to cast an unrivalled Freezing Charm." He lifted his chin, looking over the tiny professor's head. "You must be quite proud of her, Severus."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Obviously," he snarled, snatching his wine goblet up; he was struck by a sudden, fierce desire to throw it in the other man's face. Instead, he took a deep sip, swallowing before he even managed to taste it. How dare this… this  _beast_  talk about his daughter as if he knew her… and the fact that he did, or at least he  _had_ , even before Severus himself had… his fingers itched, suddenly, to reach for his wand, to wipe that insufferably mild smile from the bastard's face.

Filius turned to him now, and he forced his expression into one that wasn't quite so bitter.

"Tell me, Severus, do you know which internships she plans on applying for?"

Severus swallowed. "She's — still considering her options. Something in research, I expect."

"Ah, of course." Filius smiled. "Quite right. As expected..."

Something flickered briefly across his expression; a less keenly observant man than Severus undoubtedly would have missed it.

"Is there something wrong, Filius?" Severus asked, managing a voice as smooth as velvet, despite the beast's eyes on him, over Filius' shoulder.

"Nothing gets by you, does it, Severus?" his colleague said, with a bit of a sad little sigh. "I confess, I've just been reminded of another student, one whom I'd expected to go into research as well, but… things don't always go the way we expect, do they?"

"I suppose they don't," Severus said, impatiently; he glanced out over the Hall. Some of the students were rising from their House tables; finally, it appeared that the feast was nearing its conclusion.

"Of course, not everyone decides to further their educational aspirations, beyond Hogwarts," Filius said, almost mournfully, "But I had  _expected_  — I had rather hoped…"

"Who?" Severus could hear the hint of a snap in his tone, and pressed mis mouth together; it wasn't Filius' fault he felt this way, of course —  _he_  wasn't the one at this table whose presence had set him on edge.

"Boot," Filius said, with a sigh that seemed almost heavier than the man himself. "Gerald Boot. I keep in touch with many of my former students, as you know. I was certain he would… but he tells me he's elected not to pursue an internship, after all."

Severus' eyes narrowed again. "I wrote the boy a recommendation letter for a legal research apprenticeship with the Wizengamot," he said, "He said it was offered to him; are you telling me he didn't take it?"

"Mr. Boot received several such offers," Filius said, "And I'm afraid he didn't accept any of them. I understand he's employed full-time at Flourish and Blott's. A waste, if you ask me."

"I'm inclined to agree," Severus managed; his gaze swept over the room again, this time landing on a particular figure that was seated at the Slytherin table. "That does strike me as…  _quite_  a disappointment. Excuse me, Filius; I've just remembered, there's something I need to speak to my daughter about."

If he'd hoped to catch Calista before she was swept up in the crowd of students leaving the Great Hall, however, he was a moment too late; he saw her, talking to Draco. Her face was pinched, anxious; she might have been fretting over him, or she might have been scolding him — at any rate, he caught only a glimpse, not long enough to interpret their conversation, before a sea of students had materialised in his path. By the time it cleared enough to let him through, she was gone, but that was no matter; it wasn't as though there was anywhere in the castle he couldn't find her.

He had made it to the door when he was nearly bowled over by a seventh-year Gryffindor, who didn't even have the decency, of course, to apologise for barrelling right into him.

"Wood," he growled, "Twenty points —"

"Professor," Wood's urgent tone wasn't meant for him; he turned and followed the boy with his eyes, as he continued to push through the crowd, "Professor Dumbledore, sir, someone's slashed the Fat Lady's portrait to shreds."

The Headmaster was able to part the crowd with a silent, pressing authority that Severus could only aspire to; he swept out of the Hall with visible urgency.

It could have been a vandal, of course; any number of the snot-nosed brats that inhabited the castle might be capable of it… but he wasn't in the mood to second-guess the Headmaster's instinct for danger. He followed quickly in the direction the Headmaster had gone, towards the Gryffindor common room.

Students filled the corridor, presse against the walls along both sides. He realised that Minerva and Lupin were beside him, as he approached the Headmaster, who stood before an empty canvas that had been violently and viciously destroyed.

"We need to find her," the Headmaster said, "Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."

"You'll be lucky!" a grating, cackling voice rang out over the crowd; before he even looked, Severus knew it was that blasted Peeves, showing up, as he always did, in the general vicinity of destruction.

The Headmaster looked calmly up at the poltergeist. "What do you mean, Peeves?" he demanded, evenly. Severus thought that Peeves would have flushed, if he'd been alive. Since he was not, he adopted a poor mimicry of contrition, answering the Headmaster in a slick, oily voice.

"Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn't want to be seen. She's a horrible mess. Saw her running through the landscape on the fourth floor, sir, dodging between the trees. Crying something dreadful. Poor thing."

The glee in the wretched creature's voice belied his lack of actual concern; and then, he smirked, as if pleased to be the one to report this.

"Did she say who did it?" The Headmaster's tone was was unchanged.

"Oh, yes, Professorhead," Peeves said, with an abysmal effort to cover his delight, "He got very angry when she wouldn't let him in, you see."

Peeves gave up on any pretense of respectfulness, then; he flipped upside down, and grinned at the assembled crowd through his legs.

"Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black."

Severus felt, suddenly, as if he'd been slashed across the gut with whatever weapon had savaged the portrait behind Dumbledore.

 _No_ , he thought wildly, even though it was precisely what he had feared, from the beginning, when he'd first heard that Headmaster had appointed —

"Gryffindor students," the Headmaster said gravely, "Return to the Great Hall, immediately. I will be along in a moment to advise you further." He looked to the assembled teachers; Severus realised that they had been joined by nearly all of the professors. "Severus, Pomona, Filius — please see your students safely to the Great Hall as well. We need them all safely accounted for, before we can begin a search."

His cloak whipped about his legs, as he turned swiftly, ordered in precisely the direction he'd have gone, anyway.  _He attacked Gryffindor tower_ , he reminded himself fiercely, as the knot in his gut grew and writhed, a massive ball of fire-breathing serpents,  _Not Slytherin. He's not after Calista._

Except, what if Black didn't  _know_  which House Calista was in? And yes, it was widely known, among the teachers at least, that Potter was thought to be Black's primary target — but that didn't mean he was the  _only_ one. What if he had other names, on his list? What if his cousin had asked him to wrap up a certain  _loose end_  for her…?

"Calista," he called, almost wildly, as soon as he'd launched himself into the Slytherin common room; he didn't see her immediately, and the writhing fire-snakes began to crawl up his throat, filling his mouth with an acidic fear. "Calista, where are you?"

She leapt up; she'd been sitting at a study table by the fireplace. The snake retreated, but the acid did not. He realised that hers wasn't the only startled expression in the room; it had fallen quiet, and the eyes of all of Slytherin House were upon him, questioning. "Dad, what's wr—"

"Prefects, you will lead the students to the Great Hall," he commanded, reining his fear in, winding it close and tight to his body. His gaze flicked back to his daughter; he wanted to snatch her up by the arm, closet her away in his office and stand guard at the door — but he had other orders, and he knew she would fight him tooth and nail if he tried. Besides, the entire school, Headmaster included, would soon be in the Great Hall - a room he'd just left, and that he could confirm Black was not hiding in. It  _would_  be safest to send her there, with all the rest of them.

She sprang into action, along with the rest of the Prefects, gathering their charges and herding them towards the exit. He ignored the questioning, worried glances that she shot him; he would explain later, preferably after he'd seen Black and Lupin  _both_  permanently eliminated as threats on her safety.

He knew the Headmaster would ask him to assist in searching the castle, and that was fine with him. If he was the one to find Black… if he did have any designs on Calista — if he  _had_ been sent by his cousin to harm her — Severus would find out, would extract the truth from his filthy, traitorous mouth by whatever devices were necessary. And, if it were true... Black's corpse would be leaving the castle tonight.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Every bite Calista had eaten that evening was threatening to make its way back up; she choked down a mouthful of bile, and forced her features into an expression of mild concern, befitting that on the face of every other Prefect.

Her eyes had been locked on her father's face, while the Headmaster had been instructing the professors to search the castle. A vein in his forehead twitched, and she recognised that his jaw was locked, much the same as  _hers_  was, though he doubted his was tight against the same crawling, acidic feeling that was invading the back of her throat.

Black had been in the castle; very likely still  _was_  in the castle. She couldn't help but wonder if her relief at finding the gates undefended but for Filch when she returned from Hogsmeade had been foolish; what if he'd waltzed right in through that very path? What if she'd passed him, in the village? Would he recognise her, remember her, after all this time?

Of course, he didn't even need to, if Narcissa was right… if she truly did resemble her mother, he would be bound to know her, or perhaps, addled by over a decade in Azkaban, even to think she  _was_ her mother… her one comfort, when she'd heard news of his escape was that she had known quite certainly that he and her mother were enemies… but in light of her own possible resemblance to her, that thought was no longer quite comforting. And besides, a lot could change, after years side-by-side in a place designed to drive its inhabitants mad...

She realised she hadn't been fearing Black as acutely as she should have been; always, the lingering ghost of Bellatrix seemed much closer, much more real… but he'd been  _here_ , in the castle, and she knew by the way her father had stormed into the Slytherin common room, choking on her name, that he feared she might be the reason why.

It was extraordinarily difficult to maintain an air of calm, to wander among the rows of whispering students and reassure them, or demand that they try to sleep. She was grateful to Percy for taking charge, and for directing her and the other Prefects, much as she'd been on the very first day of term, when she'd been so surrounded by her ghosts in the Entrance Hall that she'd felt like one, herself.

Rumours were flying; everyone wanted to know how Black had gotten into the castle. Calista overheard at least a dozen theories, and each of them should have been impossible; but who knew, anymore?

Periodically, a teacher would check in, usually with whichever Prefect happened to be standing near the door. When Flitwick checked in, it was her; she opened her mouth to assure him that all of the students were fine, that all was well. She was certain that she was going to retch when she forced her jaw unhinged, but instead, all that came out were precisely the calm, measured words that she intended. She really  _was_  getting better at Occlumency, she realised; she had to be, or she never would have been able to keep herself together, that night.

She was at precisely the opposite end of the Hall when her father checked in, but she swept across the hall to him as if summoned. She hardly remembered why she had been cross with him, why she had avoided him for an entire week.

"Dad," she murmured, very quietly, facing away from the students so she wouldn't be overheard, "What's going on?"

"It doesn't appear that Black's still in the castle," he told her, just as quietly. "But we won't discount the possibility until every corner of the castle has been thoroughly searched."

His eyes read her face like a book; she was certain that he would see her nerves, despite her best efforts to keep her expression calm, but if he did, he didn't let on.

"I don't expect anyone will be returning to their dormitories at his hour," he said, "But once the search is completed — once the Headmaster releases you from your patrol — you're welcome to come to my quarters, and sleep there."

"You're nervous," Calista observed, quietly, for she could still read it on  _his_  face. "You'd prefer it if I did come, wouldn't you?"

"It doesn't matter how many eyes are around, confirming your safety," he murmured, so softly that even she could scarcely make it out. "I'd always prefer they were mine."

She swallowed the acrid, painful lump in her throat, felt it rejoin the massive knot in her gut.

"I… I'll come."

He nodded, not bothering to conceal his relief. "Very well. I do need to go, and rejoin the search, but I'll return when we're finished."

When he returned, hours later, Calista felt as if she hadn't slept in a hundred years; the dark, the whispering stillness of the hall, had made her drowsy, and she was yearning for the soft, familiar bed in that tiny dungeon room.

She had to wait a few moments more, while her father reported his findings — or lack thereof — to the Headmaster. Percy edged in on them eagerly, but Calista took a step back. She knew better than to intrude on her father, when his face was like that.

"I must go down to the dementors, Dumbledore said, after a moment, in a tone that clearly indicated he had reached the end of the discussion at hand. Calista felt a stir of relief; she could nearly feel the blankets over her. "I said I would inform them when our search was complete."

"Didn't they want to help, sir?" Percy asked earnestly, and Calista shivered involuntarily, unable to prevent herself from imagining their dark, cloaked forms drifting across the stone floor… she thought suddenly of the tiny, silvery nightlight that her father had supplied for her room in his quarters, hoped fervently that it was still lit.

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said coldly, "But I'm afraid no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster."

He left; Percy looked quite sorry that he had asked, but it wasn't his face that caught her attention — it was her father's, whose eyes were locked on the Headmaster, and whose features were etched with a deep, evident resentment.

After a moment, he turned his head slightly in her direction, offered a nod so tight and brief that it was nearly imperceptible; still, she was an expert in picking up nearly imperceptible signs from him, and so she followed, a few paces behind, as he swept from the Great Hall.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning after Black's attack on the Fat Lady, Severus was dead tired; patrolling the castle until three in the morning had been exhausting enough, but the fact that he'd hardly managed an hour of fitful sleep afterwards set his temples to pounding.

He rose before dawn had finished her arrival, but even so, Calista was in the cramped little kitchen before him, seated at the table with what he strongly suspected was not her first cup of coffee that morning. Still, there was some left in the pot; he grunted an acknowledgement of this as he poured himself a steaming mug full and sat across from her.

He expected to see the same tired, dark circles around her eyes that he knew he sported, but when he flicked his eyes across the table at her, there was no sign of that, though he could see her stifling a yawn. In fact, if anything, her face looked even and the dark eyes were wide, and alert. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks, as if she'd been outside, or —  _ah._  Severus narrowed his eyes. She had applied cosmetics, that was it; he suspected that underneath the layers of paint and plaster Narcissa had her in the habit of wearing, her eyes  _were_  indeed shadowed and tired.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, over the rim of his mug.

"Fine," she said, as he knew she would; only there was no tell-tale falter in her soft voice, no flicker in her dark eyes that betrayed the lie. Severus frowned with reluctant approval; the stuff she'd painted on her face wasn't her only armour against being read.

Still. "You're lying," he said, matter-of-factly, but not quite accusingly. "You're fit to fall asleep in your chair."

She had been lifting her mug, but she stilled at his words, and regarded him curiously. "You can tell?"

Severus' frown deepend. He never lied to her. "I know," he said, "Because you were up as late as I was, and I'm dead on my feet."

"Oh." She had evidently changed her mind about taking another sip of coffee, and set the mug down, taking a moment to place it just so, and, he suspected, to gather her thoughts.

He was right; after a few seconds, she looked up again, shrewdly. "You said Sirius Black was no longer in the castle," she began, and then stopped, evidently awaiting confirmation.

Severus nodded tightly, pressing his mouth into a thin line; that was what he  _believed_ , anyway. There'd been no sign of him. But…

"You're not really certain of that, though, are you?" Calista said, as if she'd read his mind.

"I'm certain he fled. I'm not certain he won't attempt to return."

Calista nodded, as if she'd more or less expected his response. "So," she said, "That's why  _you_  couldn't sleep."

It was a perfect opening, and Severus seized on it immediately. "Indeed. And why couldn't you?"

She lifted a brow. "Same reasons as always."

He scrutinised her face, but as it had been of late, she betrayed  _nothing_. " _Precisely_  the same reasons?" he asked quietly, with a subtle emphasis.

She shrugged. "More or less."

"Ah," Severus said, hearing the silk in his own voice, "It's the  _more_  that I'm interested in hearing about."

She met his gaze evenly, steadily; it could have been a challenge. Perhaps it was.

"Homework," she said, a bit  _too_  easily. "Exam preparations."

"I see," Severus said, leaning back slightly, even as his scrutiny of her intensified, "That's a relief. I'd feared perhaps you were still fixating on the fate of that rat."

 _Aha_ , and there it was; the briefest glint in her eyes, a slight tremor of her fingers as she laced them hastily through the handle of her mug, lifting it with what was an otherwise maddening calm. Not only would anyone  _else_  have missed it, but undoubtedly he would have to, had he not been specifically looking for it.

"Then," she said, evenly, after what was undoubtedly a steadying sip of her brew, "You feared for nothing."

"Tell me, Calista, when has lying to me ever been productive for you?"

He expected the snap of anger, the cold furrowing of her brow and narrowing of her eyes; instead, she offered a tiny smirk, around the side of her mug.

"It always is, at first," she said, "It's when I try to keep it up that it usually seems to go awry. But you  _are_  fearing for nothing; I'm fine."

Severus frowned. She appeared unruffled, blasé, even. He began to question whether he'd only seen the flicker of fear, the tremble of her hand, because he  _expected_  to. He was tired, after all; perhaps it was making him imagine things.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said at last, "Since we will, of course, be revisiting the spell during your next lesson…"

No, he had not imagined anything; her already pale knuckles turned white as bone as she tightened her grip on the mug — but her face, damn it, was still  _impeccably_  guarded, even to him. He was certain now, that the thing he'd been suspecting since midsummer was true, after all.

"What if I decide that I don't want to maintain my end of our bargain anymore?" she questioned, features placid even though he knew she must be feeling anything but, "What if I want to cancel our defence lessons, and accept all of your restrictions?"

Severus grimaced against the headache that was beginning to pound at his temples; he could feel a frantic bubbling somewhere in his chest, and realised his heart was racing.

"You'd be giving up your freedom," he said, quickly and harshly, "You'd be relegated to the Slytherin common room or to my office on the weekends and after classes are finished every day. No roaming the castle; no Hogsmeade visits…"

When her expression remained unchanged, he felt the slither of panic begin creeping its way up his throat.

"Do I need to remind you that your Prefect patrols count as  _roaming the castle_?" he asked, hoping she couldn't detect the crackling desperation that he felt at the back of his throat, the mouth of the slithering panic-snake.

"I've been thinking about all of that," Calista said, running her thumb along the handle of the mug, "And I don't think you really ever expected I'd refuse the bargain in the first place, did you?"

 _Damn it._  Severus held his face rigid, though he could feel the snake in his throat now, practically spitting with fear and irritation.

He swallowed, with effort. "I understand your hesitation," he said, trying to sound patient though he felt anything but, "And with luck, you won't need half the spells I'm teaching you, but — Calista, there's a mass murderer on the loose who just last night managed to find his way into the castle, and —" he paused; something he was forbidden to tell her had very nearly made it to the tip of his tongue, and he was dangerously near to not giving a bloody shit about it.

"I know."

"You don't know, Calista. You don't know the half of it."  _Literally,_  he thought sourly, and there was a flash of an image in his mind… a dark, twisting tunnel; a horrible, writhing creature, neither human nor beast, but some horrible in-between…

"Maybe," she said, still with infuriating calm, "Maybe not. But let's say I  _do_  accept all of those restrictions, in place of the lessons. We'll both be miserable…"

"You'll be safe," he snapped back.

She nodded, and hunched over her mug,choosing to look down into it rather than meet his gaze; he narrowed his eyes, watching for some chink in her armour, some reason she was avoiding his eyes.

"I'll be safe for the remainder of term, I guess. But what about after that? You can't… I mean, I'm seventeen, I'm of age, right?"

"Calista," he hissed, in warning tones; the snake was back in his throat.

"You can't watch me every minute forever."

"Try me," he growled.

"Dad," she said, looking up; there was something unspoken in her eyes, but it passed too quickly for him to decipher it properly. "I'm not saying I won't continue the lessons —"

"Obviously," he managed, rising to his feet; if he'd meant to intimidate, it failed. She rose, too, and he was reminded again that they were essentially of a height. "That's not an option, Calista."

"If it's not an option," she said, "Then it means our bargain is null, because I can't choose my way out of it.  _That_  means it's time for a new one."

"Oh? And what exactly did you have in mind?"

"I don't know yet," she said, in a smaller voice than she'd been using; for the first time that morning, she looked uncertain. He wondered if it had anything to do with the curl of his fingers, unbidden, into fists, or the way he knew his eyes must be flashing, or if her fear came, as it usually did, from somewhere within. "But the point — I mean, the point of my learning defense from you is to address your fears of something happening to me, right?"

He nodded tightly, not trusting himself to verbalise his response without snapping at her again, and not wanting to do so when she was finally indicating even a small measure of vulnerability.

"I have fears, too," she continued, in the same small voice; she almost sounded younger, and he almost wished she  _were._ "Some of them are the same as yours, and… some aren't. I need to find a way to address  _my_  fears, too."

"You won't…" He swallowed; he knew, at least, what she was referring to, even if he didn't know how to make her understand that it wasn't, couldn't ever be, true. "You won't ever become like her, Calista."

"How do you  _know_  that?" she asked, for what felt like the hundredth time; it was beginning to seem that he would never be able to convince her. "And don't just… don't just say because you know  _me_."

He frowned, feeling hopeless. What else  _could_  he tell her, to make her see? He could feel the weight of her dark gaze on him, pleading silently for an answer that would be irrefutable.

"Very well," he said, after a moment. "You can't be like her because — Bellatrix Lestrange has never been able to produce a Patronus. No Death Eater… no one who  _remained_ a Death Eater… can."

He caught his mistake and corrected himself in time, wishing he didn't have to. It was true that he could produce a Patronus. It was also true that he had once been called a Death Eater. It was not the first time he had felt the pain of his promise never to lie to his daughter. He hoped it was worth it; he hoped he would see her eyes, her expression, clear with relief, so they could put this whole wretched conversation behind them.

Only, instead — instead, she lowered her eyes, avoiding his gaze, and sidestepped him, leaving the kitchen as silently and abruptly as if the last ten years had never happened.

Part of him wanted to go after her, to pull her into a hug, however awkward it might be, if only to reassure himself that she would accept it — but the rest of him, the larger part, could envision her flinching away a little too clearly. He settled for calling after her, instead, and he was almost too late. He heard the door at the end of the corridor open as she let herself out into his office.

"Calista…" he had no idea what else to say.  _I gave it up before I even knew you were my daughter_ , perhaps, or  _I'm not proud of the things I did._  But she knew both of those things already, so what good would it do?  _I never killed anyone_ , he wanted to shout after her… but then, didn't that slip dangerously close to a lie?

"I'm late for Charms," she threw hastily over her shoulder, and it was as close to a peace offering as he supposed he was going to get; then the door shut firmly behind her, and he was alone.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," Calista whispered fiercely, gripping her wand; she shut her eyes tight and imagined her old Patronus, willed it to appear as forcefully as she had ever willed anything in her life, and was rewarded with only the merest flicker of silver; if the room hadn't been so dark, if the skin of her hand hadn't been briefly and dimly illuminated by the flash, she would have thought even that was imagined.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she whispered again, searching the fabric of her mind for the strength, the warmth, the solid core of protection and love that had enabled her to work the charm before… it was not so easy to find, this time. It was something like searching for a ray of sunlight beyond a thick blanket of clouds; even the signs of its presence seemed feeble and illusory.

"Please," she murmured, not certain if she was asking the room, or herself, or some other force: the entire universe, perhaps; her need felt almost that desperate. "Please, just work —  _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Another feeble, silvery wisp; she felt her eyes sting, and she clenched her jaw against the threat of tears.  _I'm not going to cry_ , she insisted, sternly, not only because it made her feel weak, but also because it certainly would not be productive.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she hissed, reaching deep inside herself, hooking on to every single spark of happiness she could unearth along the way, " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

She touched on all of it — ran vision after vision through her mind, of her friends, of Gerald, of her father, of every single good thing that she could recall ever happening in her life — and then, even as she strained to rise back to the surface of her mind, bringing all of those memories with her, something pulled at her, hooked dark, twisting fingers into her.

 _Mine_ , she could hear Bellatrix cooing to her, somewhere beyond the silver flash of a blade,  _Idiot girl; you will_ always _be mine._

It was only memory. Calista reminded herself of that, and strained desperately against the blackness that was weighing her down. She imagined her father, whose eyes constantly betrayed his love, his concern for her, even when he didn't mean to — who had saved her from Bellatrix more than once, who had given her a chance to live as freely as the daughter of an Azkaban inmate ever could — she remembered the way she had felt, wrapped in the cloak of his protection, his love for her, when she'd used legilimency on him during their lesson. That day, her Patronus had been as bright as the full moon on a clear night — a beacon in the surrounding blackness. She willed it to be that way, again.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she said, and she could  _feel_  it, all of it, the brightness and the kindness and the feeling of  _home_  surging through her veins —

— and along with it came the rush of dark power, the surging tide of every dark thing Bellatrix had done to her, would do to her again if she had the chance. She could see her mother's narrow, bony fingers wrapped around her own smaller ones, forcing them around the length of a wand.

 _Do it_ , Bellatrix hissed, in her ear or in her memory; it hardly seemed they were different, in this dark place.  _Hurt the filthy Mudblood_...

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," she whispered again, but she didn't even have to open her eyes to know that it had failed.

She felt a deep, dull ache somewhere in her gut. She thought, at first, that it must be despair, and then her stomach made a hollow gurgling noise, and she realised it must be hunger. It was no wonder; she'd had nothing but the coffee in the morning, and she'd spent her lunch break and, now, her dinner break in the secret room, whispering an apparently useless incantation over and over.

She slipped her wand into her pocket. She had no time to eat, now; she was undoubtedly already late for Astronomy.

She hardly even remembered to check whether the corridor was empty, this time, when she left the room on the seventh floor.

 _You're not like her_ , she tried to remind herself of what her father had told her, over and over again, what her friends had told her, what Daisy had said, what even Gerald had once told her,  _There's no way you could ever be like her._

She tried to hear that, over and over, but somewhere along the way, the words twisted and shifted, and they were louder this way.

 _Death Eaters can't produce a Patronus_.

I _can't produce a Patronus_.

Well, she sure as hell wasn't going to tell her father that  _now_.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

' _Today,'_   _Professor Lupin said, as he surveyed the class, 'We will have another practical lesson.'_

 _Calista felt her hand shoot into the air, against her will; she whipped her head around, looked up at it in horror, and tried to yank it back down; it wouldn't budge, not even when she lifted her other hand, wrapped her fingers around her elbow, and_ pulled _._

' _Yes, Calista?' the professor said, with a mild look, 'Is there something you'd like to share with me?'_

' _No,' she meant to say, but instead, what came out of her mouth was: 'I can't demonstrate. I can't produce a Patronus. I used to be able to, but my mother took it away.'_

_He would look at her with revulsion now, or horror — perhaps he'd kick her out of the classroom. After all, did she really belong in a N.E.W.T. Defence class if she couldn't manage a Patronus Charm?_

_But Professor Lupin didn't seem bothered at all. 'That's quite all right, Chloe,' he told her, 'We're not practising the Patronus Charm anymore.'_

' _My name's Calista,' she said — it was, wasn't it? She looked down at her homework essay, which had just materialised on her desk without explanation, to verify that. Yes, there it was, right there, scrawled in the top-left corner of the sheet of parchment. 'Calista Lestrange'._

' _No,' she tried to whisper, but her mouth didn't move. She tried to wrench her jaw open, and then, when that failed, she reached for her quill — that had just materialised, too — and tried to scratch the surname out. Her fingers wrapped around the quill, but she found that she couldn't make them move towards the essay._

' _Help', she tried to say, filling with panic. She looked up, hoping the professor would see what was happening, would intervene in some way, to help her, but he only looked back at her, blankly and helplessly._

_Of course; he didn't know what was wrong. How could he? She couldn't tell him. She couldn't speak._

_She remembered that her voice wasn't the only way she could call for help; she thought of her father, and she searched for his mind. She could call out to him — she could make him come to her._

_She tried to concentrate, but Professor Lupin was speaking again, and his words distracted her._

' _Today,' he told the classroom, but Calista realised that she was suddenly the only student in it; no, that wasn't true. There was one other: a soft-looking boy with curly brown hair and Gryffindor robes was sitting beside her, eyes fixed on the professor, seemingly oblivious to her presence._

' _Today,' Professor Lupin continued, 'We will practise fighting boggarts. Neville Longbottom, you can go first. Come on up. Wand ready, please.'_

' _No,' Calista wanted to scream, but her mouth was still locked, her fingers frozen in place around her wand — but hadn't it been her quill, a moment ago? 'No, please, I don't want to see her —'_

_It was useless. Neither of them could hear her. Neville was on his feet now, he was at the front of the classroom. Where was the boggart, then? She didn't see anything —_

_And then, suddenly, she did. She saw Bellatrix materialise beside the professor, eyes glittering with cold amusement._

' _Oh, a little Longbottom to play with,' Bellatrix cooed; she hadn't noticed Calista yet, or she was deliberately toying with her. She twirled her wand between her fingers, and then, without warning, she leveled it at the Gryffindor boy._

' _I do love to play with Longbottoms,' Bellatrix confessed, as if she'd confessed to playing with dolls, 'Will you go mad, like your parents?'_

 _And_ then _, as if she'd sensed Calista's fear, and found her by it, the cold grey eyes flickered past the boy, and landed right on her._

' _Come on, Calista,' her mother coaxed, face splitting into a grin. 'Don't miss out on the_ fun _.'_

_Calista rose from her chair, even though she didn't want to; her fingers tightened around the wand, and she began to walk, woodenly, towards the front of the classroom, arm lifting to point the wand —_

No _, she thought wildly,_ No, please — Dad!

' _Oh, yes,' Bellatrix smiled with delight, and crooked her finger towards Calista, wriggling it back and forth to summon her closer. To her horror, Calista's feet carried her faster towards her mother. 'Yes, let's invite him to join the fun, too. Tell you what, daughter. I'll kill the Longbottom, and you can kill your father.'_

' _Yes,' Professor Lupin said mildly, from his spot beside Bellatrix, 'Calista, I do believe it is your turn to face the boggart now.'_

' _Please,' Calista wanted to tell him, but she still couldn't move her mouth, 'Please, you're wrong — she's not a boggart, she's real.'_

_There was a sudden, loud rattling sound — the door! The knob was quaking violently, and she knew it must be her father on the other side, come to answer her call._

' _Dad!' she breathed, and she could hear her own voice, finally, even though — it was the oddest thing, she could feel that her mouth was still clamped shut._

_She heard laughter, a cold, hollow, awful sort of laugh, but it didn't sound like Bellatrix exactly…_

_Calista looked up at the boggart, at her mother, but she was rippling and changing._

' _Ah,' Professor Lupin said; she realised Neville was gone. She had no idea where. 'It looks like the boggart is changing forms. Wand at the ready, Calista.'_

' _No,' she said, and she could hear her voice again, even though her mouth still wasn't moving. 'No, it can't be,_ she's _my boggart —'_

_The door flew open, and her father stood in the doorway._

' _Calista!' he yelled, 'Calista, what are you doing?'_

_Only, he wasn't looking at her — he was looking beyond, at the boggart-Bellatrix… Calista followed his gaze, and then —_

_The boggart-Bellatrix smirked. Her nose lengthened, her hair straightened, and her figure stretched, becoming longer and straighter._

No _, Calista thought wildly,_ no, no no.

_Boggart-Calista lifted her wand. 'Isn't it obvious what I'm doing?' she said, voice flat and not at all the way she thought she sounded, 'I'm going to kill you.'_

_Calista realised the words_ were _coming out of her own mouth, after all; she felt her elbow straighten, and she was looking at her father, wand clenched between her fingers._

_There was no longer Calista and Boggart-Calista; there was only herself, and her wand, aimed between her father's eyes. Neville and Professor Lupin had both disappeared._

' _No,' Calista whispered, 'I'm not — I won't —'_

_And then she felt the press of someone at her back, felt cold fingers wrap themselves around her own, pressing them firmly to the smooth wood of her wand._

' _Yes, you will,' her mother whispered in ear, '_ Imperio!'

_Calista felt the familiar rush of power in her veins. Her head began to swim._

' _No…' she tried to say, but she felt the dreadful, familiar pull of the spell on her limbs, on her mind —_

—  _and this time, she knew she wasn't a Squib. This time, she could do the spell._

' _Sectumsempra!' she howled —_

"No!" Calista leapt to her feet, feeling the scream rip itself out of her throat — there was something gripping her, something twisting itself around her legs, stopping her from running away…

"What the hell?" someone screeched, "Oh my god — you fucking  _psycho_ , what are you doing  _now_?"

There was a sudden blinding brightness, and then Calista was looking up into a narrowed set of blue eyes, a tangle of blonde hair haloing around them.

"Olivia, what's going on?" Portia was sitting up in her bed, blankets half-off. "Is it — Is it Sirius Black?"

"No," Olivia sneered, and her expression hardened, "It's just  _this_  little nutter again."

Calista blinked rapidly, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the room - she looked down, and realised that the thing that was twisted around her legs was just her blanket. She had a quill clenched between her fingers. She loosened them, let it drop, and rose unsteadily to her feet.

"Shut… shut it, Avril," she managed, weakly and listlessly; gods, her head was spinning. The rushing, the dizziness… even though it had apparently been a dream, she still felt awful. "I need… I need to go…"

"Obviously," Olivia hissed snidely, while Calista nearly stumbled trying to free herself from her blanket.

There was a knock at the door, suddenly — oh gods, had she managed to really call to him, to summon him here, from the throes of her dream? She'd thought nothing could possibly be more embarrassing than waking up screaming,  _again_ , in front of her roommates, but  _this —_

"Hey!" came a voice; a  _female_  voice. "What's going on in there? I heard a scream — open up, I'm a  _Prefect_!"

Olivia rolled her eyes and stormed over to the door. She yanked it open, to reveal a ruffled-looking girl with dark hair in plaits, and a Prefect badge hastily pinned to her pajamas. Calista felt a slight current of relief ebb over her. It was only Sofia; of course it would be. Her dormitory was only across the corridor.

"It's nothing," Olivia snapped, "Just this bloody maniac, waking us all up  _again_. Sod off."

"Calista?" Sofia frowned, "Is everything all right?"

"It's — I just…" She finally managed to step free of her blanket, and took a faltering step forward; gods, why did she feel so  _weak_?

"Everything's fine, Sofia," she said, without much conviction. "You can… you can go back to bed."

Sofia frowned. "You don't  _look_  fine," she said, "You look as if you've seen a ghost — has the Bloody Baron come through here? He's supposed to stay out of the dorms, but Eva told me sometimes he doesn't. We can tell the Headmaster — though maybe we should try telling your father first, maybe he can —"

Calista jerked herself away from Olivia's sudden outflung arm; the other girl tried to grip her around the arm and missed, clutching her fingers over empty air instead.

"Get  _out_  of here, both of you, with your inane blabbering," Olivia sniped, " _Some_ of us need to get some sleep."

"Calista needs to sleep, too." Calista blinked, and turned her head in the direction of the small voice; it was  _Emily_ , who was sitting upright in her own bed, hair in a single plait, and frowning. "She was in Astronomy, too, until one, and we both have Potions first thing."

Olivia narrowed her eyes again, and opened her mouth, undoubtedly to unleash some awful insult at Emily. Calista felt a sudden surge of affection for Emily, even though the two of them weren't really friends.

"It's fine," she said, hastily; she forced herself to walk around her bed, only slightly shaky, and she grabbed her wand. After less than a second of consideration, she reached for a roll of parchment, too, and another quill; she didn't trust that she'd be able to pick up the one she'd dropped on the floor, not without pitching forward. She still felt a little weak, and more more than a little dizzy. "I — I have… homework, anyway."

She didn't, not really; that was the  _one_  facet of her life that she had under utmost control, the one place where she didn't feel like she was helplessly falling. But she had a wild impulse to write down the dream she'd just had, to remember it properly — something in the back of her mind told her it was important, that there was an answer in it, if only she could decipher it.

Sofia lingered in the doorway, until Calista joined her in the corridor. The door slammed behind them, and Calista jumped.

"It's all right, Sofia," she said again, over the sudden racing of her heart, "You can... you can go to bed…"

Another door opened, and then Eva stepped out into the corridor, rubbing her eyes. "Whass going on?" she mumbled, "Ssofia?"

She blinked, taking in the sight of both Calista and Sofia in the corridor. "Huh?" Eva said, "Are we having a party?"

"Go back to bed, both of you," Calista insisted, trying to inject her voice with an authoritative note; internally, she calculated how close she was to a chair, and wondered if she'd make it there without steadying herself against the walls.

"You look like shit," Eva observed; Calista barely had the energy to scowl at her.

"You  _do_  look really off," Sofia agreed. She cocked her head. "You weren't at dinner tonight," she said slowly, "And… actually, you weren't at breakfast or lunch either. Calista, did you eat anything today?"

"I —" Calista frowned, trying to remember. It was distinctly possible that she hadn't. "I eat with my dad sometimes."

"But did you today?" Sofia pressed, shrewdly.

"Yes. I — think. It's… I'm fine. Go back to bed, I'll… get something."

She couldn't help it any longer; she shifted her parchment and quill to her wand hand, then reached her free arm out, pressing her palm to the wall, steadying herself. She had the impression, suddenly, that Sofia was probably right; she probably hadn't remembered to eat… she'd been practising that damn spell and then… she frowned, trying to recall what she'd done after her Astronomy class, and realised she'd gone right to bed. She  _hadn't_  eaten, then. Well, that explained it.

"No," Sofia said, and she slipped herself underneath the arm Calista had pressed against the wall, yanking Calista's arm down over her shoulders. Calista was too tired to jerk herself away. " _We'll_  get you something," she said firmly, "Come on, let's go sit. Eva, can you go down to the kitchens and see if there's anything laying out that we can take?"

"Can I sneak around the castle in the middle of the night and steal something without getting caught?" Eva asked slyly, quirking a brow. "Oh, I think I can manage that."

"Good," Sofia said, "Go on, then. Calista, come  _on_ , we're not going back to bed until you look a little bit less like an Inferius, so let's go sit, hm?"

"I don't look like an Inferius," Calista snarled; she let herself be led to one of the low sofas in the common room nonetheless, while Eva snorted.

'"Right, and I don't have a bottle of firewhiskey under my bed," she said, sarcastically.

Sofia frowned. "You told me you got rid of that, Eva…"

"I did," Eva smirked. "Then I got another one. And you're one to talk, sending me off in the dead of night to break into the kitchens." She shook her head with mock disapproval. "And you call yourself a Prefect…"

Sofia narrowed her eyes, as Calista sat on the end of the sofa. "We'll discuss the firewhiskey later," she vowed. "And be careful, will you? The  _last_  thing we need is for you to run into the Bloody Baron..."

"That guy — er, that ghost — is a creep," Calista muttered, setting her parchment and quill on the cushion next to her. "Oh, and you have to tickle the pear to get in, Eva."

Eva snorted delicately. "I know that. And I know how to avoid the Baron."

Sofia fussed a bit until Eva returned, moments later, with a small bundle tucked under her arm. She unloaded the contents onto a low table near the sofa — she'd managed to snag a couple of bananas, a hunk of bread, and several slices of cheese. Calista felt her stomach growl as soon as she saw it, and despite her earlier irritation at her friends' intervention, she reached her hand out quickly, snatching a banana.

"Thanks," she managed, "I guess I… I guess I  _was_  hungry."

Her friends waited up a few minutes longer; Sofia noticed the parchment and asked about it, and Calista told her again that it was for homework. Finally, after Calista had eaten not only the banana, but the bread and the cheese as well, Sofia and Eva both left her, returning to their dormitory. She could hear Sofia saying something about the firewhiskey in a scolding tone as their voices faded away, and she couldn't help but allow a small smile. Sometimes, Eva and Sofia really reminded her of Amelia and Penny. Maybe that was why she liked them so much.

Once she was certain they were gone, and certain that she felt a good deal steadier on her feet, Calista gathered her things and moved to one of the study tables. She spread the parchment out, and began to scrawl rapidly, writing down everything she could remember from her dream.

It helped her racing heart slow down, organising everything in writing; while she worked, she ate the apple and the other banana. By the time she could hear someone else stirring, one of the dormitory doors opening and closing, she felt much better.

Still, she couldn't risk letting anyone see what she'd written down. She folded the parchment up, just as a figure came into the common room.

"Oh," someone said uncertainly, "Erm — morning, Calista."

She looked up, and suddenly she felt just as uncertain as the voice she'd heard had sounded.

"Oh," she echoed, hastily stuffing the parchment into her pocket. "Good morning, Marcus."

"Up all night doing homework, huh?" Marcus guessed, gesturing with his chin towards the pocket she'd just shoved her parchment into. "Some things don't change, I guess."

"Yeah. I guess."

"So, erm…" Marcus shrugged awkwardly. "I dunno if I ever said thanks, about… about the whole Quidditch thing. Getting back on the team and all."

"It's all right," Calista said, not certain why she felt so awkward all of a sudden; maybe she was just mirroring him. "I mean, it was… you were probably right, it was probably because of me you got kicked off in the first place. I mean… I didn't  _ask_  him to, but you know how he is…"

"Yeah." Marcus shook his head, and chuckled a bit. "I sure do. Guess he's that wanker Boot's problem now though, yeah?"

Calista frowned. "If you're going to start —'

"Nah, nah, I'm not," Marcus said hastily, taking a couple of steps forward. He set his hand on the back of the chair across from her. "Mind if I sit down a minute?"

"Erm… if you want. I could… if you want the study table, I could go."

Marcus snorted, pulling the chair out carelessly and plopping himself down on it. "Yeah, right, I'm totally gonna start studying at six-thirty in the morning. I'd rather crash my broomstick into the Whomping Willow, thanks."

"Okay," Calista said, uneasily. She wasn't sure how to react to his sudden friendliness; she couldn't help but wonder what might happen if Hecate Rowle came out of  _her_  dormitory. She and her brother were more or less leaving Calista alone, except for a few snide comments here and there, and she doubted that would continue if Hecate thought she and Marcus were... but of course, that was ridiculous, anyway, they'd broken up more than a year ago, and they were still allowed to  _talk_  after all.

"I wouldn't recommend crashing your broomstick, though," Calista added, once she realised how rude she sounded. "Seems to me that could be pretty painful."

Marcus chuckled. "Yep, bet it would. Speaking of painful, by the way… I'm gonna talk to Wood real soon, reschedule our first Quidditch match. Reckon that way we can give Draco's arm a bit more time to heal."

"Oh." Calista blinked. "That's… nice of you. Although I should warn you, I'm beginning to wonder if he's exaggerating the extent of his injury."

Marcus shrugged. "He probably is. Doesn't bother me a bit, though. It'll throw Gryffindor off their game, plus we get more time to practise that way."

"Oh."

"So, erm…" Marcus exhaled, then glanced over his shoulder. There were more sounds now from the direction of the dormitories; undoubtedly, they wouldn't be alone much longer. Calista felt a small flood of relief; even though they were getting along, the conversation still felt decidedly awkward.

"Something I gotta ask you," Marcus continued, and Calista's relief was short-lived. "But — erm, not here. Something I gotta ask you in private. Reckon we can meet sometime this week? Maybe… maybe lunch time or something, or you could come by the pitch after practise on Friday?"

Calista blinked, and focused on keeping her expression calm and unreadable; she didn't want to clue him in the sudden tingle of nerves in her stomach. What could he  _possibly_  have to ask her that he couldn't ask her in the common room?

She considered; if she met him at lunch time, he might ask to meet in the Owlery, and she didn't think she could stand  _that_  level of awkwardness. "I can meet you on Friday," she finally said, "I don't have any classes. I mean — just studying, you know."

"Brilliant." Marcus smiled, the same crooked smile that had once made her stomach go all fluttery; it didn't do that anymore, but she did have to admit there was still something nice about it. "See you then. Have… er, have fun studying."

"Yeah. Uhm, thanks. Have fun… flying."

"I always do." He stood up then, and carelessly kicked the chair haphazardly back into place. "Later, yeah?"

Calista nodded, as Marcus left the common room. Other students started to filter in then, some rubbing sleep from their eyes just as Eva had done hours ago, others stifling yawns.

As soon as Marcus had gone, Calista allowed a small frown. She couldn't think of anything Marcus would need to ask her, but she supposed that at least if she went to meet him at the pitch, Draco would probably be there, too, and he couldn't ask her anything  _too_  strange. She sincerely hoped she was right.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista stifled a yawn, just as her father approached to lean over the worktable she was sharing with Emily.

They had four vials lined up; the first three filled with a deep, blood-red liquid, and the fourth was a thick, muddy brown paste.

"This one's useless," he said, lifting the ruined brown potion between pinched fingers by the bottle's neck. "It looks like whatever you did to the Nettle Leaves ruined them."

"Obviously," Calista snarked unpleasantly. Her father's eyes flicked up at her, but Emily cleared her throat before he could reprimand her.

"We — er, that is I mean, Calista — tried picking them after the frost, sir," Emily volunteered, in her quiet voice, "We thought perhaps it might preserve them better."

"Ah," Severus said, flicking his gaze briefly over Emily and then back to Calista. "Obviously  _not_ ," he snarked back, mimicking his daughter's tone precisely. He picked up the next bottle in the line, and swirled its contents around. "Too thin," he declared, and then set that one down and picked up the other too. He swirled them both, and then lifted each one in turn up to his nose to sniff.

"The salamander blood in this one has lost its potency," he told them, "It doesn't smell coppery enough. This one, though — this one seems more or less correct."

"That's the control potion, sir," Emily said, "We decided to brew a quarter of each batch by the traditional instructions, so we could compare how the others came out."

"I see. Well, Miss Yaxley, it's an admirable plan —"

"It was  _my_  plan," Calista pointed out; her father ignored her.

"I suggest you continue it going forward," he continued, as if Calista hadn't spoken at all, "I'll take this bottle and send it down to the hospital wing; they're low on blood-replenishing potion now that Quidditch season has started again. You can dispose of the other three. I trust you have your next trials outlined?"

Emily glanced to Calista for confirmation; Calista scowled, but nodded grudgingly. "We're going to bugger the dittany," she muttered.

"We're going to experiment with changing the treatment of the dittany, sir," Emily said, much more politely than Calista had.

"Very well," he said, setting the rejected potion down but re-stoppering the good one. "Carry on with that, then. Calista -"

"I know," Calista said, stiffly, "You'll see me after class, right?"

Severus' eyebrows rose. "Do I need to? I was merely going to suggest that you check in with Miss Clearwater and Mr. Spratt on the wormwood infusion."

"Oh." Calista relaxed, slightly. Perhaps she'd been worried for nothing; after all, the fact that he  _hadn't_  come running to the Slytherin dormitories last night likely meant that she hadn't called out to him in her sleep. "All right, yeah, I'll do that."

Calista crossed over to where Penny and George were working. They had their water at a slow, even boil, and a small pile of chunks of wormwood sat waiting beside their cauldron. Calista tried to remember exactly what her wormwood had looked like last year; she suspected her father wouldn't have sent her over here to help if there wasn't something wrong with what they were doing.

"We should be careful lowering the wormwood in," George said, frowning and rubbing a spot on the back of his hand. "Caught a splash when I put my hand over the cauldron, water's right hot."

"Yes, well, it's boiling," Penny pointed out, efficiently but not  _quite_  coldly, "We'll wear dragonhide gloves for that part, just in case. What do you think, Calista? Is this what yours looked like, last year?"

"Erm…" Calista tilted her head, and studied the bits of wormwood carefully. "I think my chunks were smaller," she said at last, "The extract will come out more evenly if you break them up a little, I think."

She glanced towards the next table, where her father was preparing to inspect Amelia's Innard-Melting Infusion, and she saw the brief flicker of approval at the corner of his mouth. She'd gotten it right, then; she'd seen what he'd sent her over there to see.

Penny and George divided the pile of wormwood, and began to break the pieces up smaller.

"Remember, keep them evenly-sized," Penny cautioned; Calista caught George rolling his eyes.

"I know," he said, "I'm not thick."

"Yes, well." Penny sniffed. "Make sure your wormwood isn't, either."

Calista bit her lip. "You sound like Percy," she muttered quietly, once he father had finished inspecting Amelia's potion and moved a bit further away.

To her surprise, Penny lifted her chin and sniffed again, eyes going hard. "Don't talk to me about  _him_  just now."

Calista blinked, and looked over to where Percy was working on the antidote to Amelia's potion, at the table across from Penny and George. He looked up, feeling their eyes, and flushed; calista could see his hands twitching nervously as he flipped pages in his textbook.

"What's going on?" Calista asked Penny quietly, shifting slightly so it would be more difficult for either George or Percy to overhear. "Are you two having a row?"

"Hmph," Penny said, breaking a chunk of wormwood into two equally-sized pieces, "It's not a  _row_  so much as it's me refusing to let him boss me around like he's my  _keeper_  instead of my  _boyfriend_ , and him being a bloody prat about it."

Calista blinked again. "Oh." Then she frowned slightly, "You know, Gerald was… a bit like that to me too, about my —" she stopped herself. Gods, she'd almost admitted in her father's classroom that she was having trouble with her Patronus. "Erm, about a spell," she finished, lamely.

"He was?" Penny frowned, and pushed her pile of wormwood back towards the centre of the table, next to the cauldron, to wait for George to finish breaking up his half. George was moving a little more slowly, and he looked like was desperately trying  _not_  to overhear their conversation.

Calista nodded, and lowered her voice a little further. "I don't think he meant anything by it, though, it's just… you know, sometimes when people are worried it comes across a bit like they're…"

"A prat?" Penny supplied, but she did look slightly less upset.

"Yeah, a bit, I guess," Calista said, glancing at Percy again. She thought it might well apply to  _him_ , though she didn't imagine she could ever think of Gerald that way… she fought off a blush, and reminded herself internally that she ought to write him later, since she hadn't had any time yesterday. Then again, evidently she hadn't even had time to  _eat_  yesterday.

"Well," Penny said, raising her voice slightly as George added his pile of wormwood pieces to hers and reached for his dragonhide gloves, "I suppose if he apologises properly, I might consider relenting, then."

Percy frowned and hunched lower over his cauldron, face almost as red as his hair. George sighed.

"Anyway," Calista said hastily, "The wormwood looks good now, it should be fine to start the infusion. I'll talk to you later, all right?"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

_Dear Gerald,_

_I'm sorry I didn't write yesterday; things were absolutely mad here. I haven't looked at the paper, so I don't know if it was printed or if they're keeping it quiet, but Sirius Black infiltrated the castle on Halloween night, and destroyed the portrait that guards the Gryffindor common room. They had us bring all of the students to the Great Hall, and the Prefects stood guard while the professors searched the castle. They didn't find him, but my father thinks he fled right after he ruined the painting._

_I think I feel about as tired as you said you've been lately. Our Prefect patrols didn't end until after three in the morning on Sunday, and last night I had one of my nightmares again, and I didn't even try to go back to sleep, since I woke my roommates up. I'm sure Olivia's already told everyone again, how mental she thinks I am for that; I think I might almost hate her enough to wish that she could understand what it's like, to have nightmares like we do, except I really couldn't wish this sort of nightmare on anyone. Maybe I wish she'd dream of werewolves or mountain trolls chasing after her, instead._

_I'm still trying to think of something we can do about your father, and the position he's put you in. Perhaps you can re-submit your internship applications during the next cycle. I know it must be starting soon, because at the last Prefect meeting, Percy said the Heads of House are going to tell us about the Ministry visit this month. I wish I'd paid a bit more attention when he was explaining how it all works, but to be perfectly honest, that was the same meeting where they handed out the Hogsmeade schedules, and all I could think about was seeing you again. Although, it occurs to me that if you_ do _submit your applications again this year, maybe you could go in for your Ministry visit the same day I have mine. I don't think I really need to explain why it would be nice to see you an extra time in between Hogsmeade weekends, do I?_

_I'll write to you again soon. In the meantime, please take care of yourself and try to get some sleep. I miss you very much already._

_Yours,_

_Calista_

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista decided to avoid looking at Marcus during dinner, in case Hecate Rowle got the wrong idea about their speaking again, and decided to return to making sure that Calista knew, every minute of every day, exactly how much Hecate despised her. She imagined it wasn't half as much as Olivia Avril did; and she didn't particularly care, so long as  _both_  of them left her more or less alone.

To that end, she'd resolved to begin sleeping in her own room in her father's quarters again. At least that way the only person she could wake up with one of her nightmares was him — and besides, she had them less often when she slept there.

After a few weeks at most, Olivia would get tired of snickering at her and whispering to the other Slytherin girls about her. Until then, Calista tried to ignore her, as well, but her grating giggle always seemed to carry.

She noticed Sofia checking her plate a few times, undoubtedly making sure she was eating, and the third time, Calista scowled at her, and then made an exaggerated show of taking a bite of chicken.

"Happy?" she snarked; Sofia smiled.

"Yes. Or I will be, once we go over the holiday decoration duties again. You said we're to help with the  _first_ floor, right?"

Calista rolled her eyes. "Sofia, it's barely November. How can you be thinking about Christmas decorations already?"

"I've  _always_  wanted to help decorate the castle," Sofia said brightly, utterly ignoring her tone, "All the lights on the trees, the garlands… I can't wait. Perhaps we can start a little early this year…"

Calista felt one corner of her mouth pull into an amused smirk, despite herself. "If I knew you were so eager, I would've asked you to do it for me last year, and the year before."

Sofia's brown eyes widened. "Oh, but don't you love doing it? Isn't it fun?"

"Erm. Not particularly. I mean, I guess doing it together won't be so bad, but…" she shrugged. "It's just extra work. At least Penny and Perce didn't give me the Astronomy Tower for decorating… those windows are a pain to reach."

"Don't you like adding the lights?" Sofia queried, seemingly unable to accept that anyone could be less than excited at the prospect of holiday decorations.

"I dunno. I guess it was fun at first, but after doing so many… it's so repetitive." Then she frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder if I could modify the charm, though…maybe mix it with some version of a Multiplication Charm. I should research…"

She trailed off, mentally working through a list of books in her head that either she owned or could borrow from her father. It didn't seem that daunting, really. She thought she could probably figure something out before it was time to decorate…

Sofia sighed. "You're doing that thing again."

Calista blinked, slightly annoyed at being ripped away from her train of thought. "Hm?"

"You're ignoring me. What is it this time, homework or that Ravenclaw boy?"

"Neither," Calista said, "I'm thinking about decorations."

Sofia blinked, mollified. "Really?"

Calista nodded. "I think I could work out some way to create all the lights at once — and as an added benefit, I could write an essay about it for Professor Flitwick."

Sofia rolled her eyes. "Liar. You  _are_  thinking about homework."

"Well, it  _is_  my N.E.W.T. year," Calista pointed out, slightly defensive. "And we're supposed to work out our internship choices by the end of term."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista's ears perked as the sound of her father's swishing robes shifted from simply walking by to walking closer, but she didn't look up from the sheet of parchment where she was hastily scribbling notes.

"It's midnight," he said softly from the kitchen doorway, "I take it you're not planning on returning to your dormitory tonight, then, either?"

She finished a rune sketch, and then paused, lifting her quill and her gaze simultaneously. "I'm not planning on returning until you manage to annoy me more than Olivia Avril does."

"That won't take long, I expect," Severus mused. She saw the corners of his mouth quirk, and hers did too, in response.

"I don't know, she seems pretty bent on giving you a run for your money lately."

He didn't say anything else, and after a moment, she turned back to her work. She had three textbooks open on the table in front of her, so if he'd wanted to join her at the table, she'd have had to move one. She flipped a page in the rune dictionary, wordlessly.

"You are planning on sleeping at some point tonight?" Severus said quietly, pointedly, after she'd gone back to scribbling notes.

"I just finished my patrol two hours ago," she pointed out, not stilling her quill, "And yes, at some point, I suppose I will." She paused, and looked up. "Did you know, we didn't have Defence Against the Dark Arts this week? I keep thinking I need to do the homework, but there wasn't any. Someone said Professor Lupin was ill."

She'd meant to make small talk, a peace offering among the uneasy silences they'd shared of late, but it backfired; his mouth curled into a sneer of disgust.

"Ill indeed. I'm aware. I was asked to cover some of his classes, but I can't be two places at once; I had a fourth-year Potions class when your Defence class was supposed to meet. Evidently, they couldn't find anyone else who was up to the task."

"I suppose it's just as well," Calista said, "I got my Potions essay done instead."

Severus quirked a brow. "In an hour and a half? I doubt you were able to produce 'Outstanding' work in that amount of time."

Calista mirrored his expression. "How long do you think I usually spend on it?"

"Insufferable brat," he said, utterly without malice. Despite his lighter tone, Calista felt a heaviness hanging in the air between them. She set her quill down and waited.

"Have you given any thought to our… bargain?" he asked quietly, and Calista felt a familiar weight settle in her gut. She wasn't ready to think about that, yet; not when she still had to work out precisely what the dream had  _meant_.

"A little," she said evasively, and then she reached for the first topic that came to mind that might be sufficient to change the subject: "Erm, Dad, I was wondering… can you tell me how the application for Ministry internships is supposed to work again? I'm not sure if I understood it from what Percy said at the Prefect meeting."

He searched her face, undoubtedly suspicious, and she arranged it to look only mildly concerned, the way she might be expected to feel about the impending internship process; she forced the rest of her fears far beneath the surface of her mind.

Severus frowned, and she thought he might not answer, but then, at last, in neutral tones, he did.

"We've been over this," he reminded her, "But after you fill out your applications, you'll need to get letters of recommendation from your professors. The minimum is two, but three to five are recommended, depending on the department. There's a release form you'll need to sign as well, allowing all of the departments you've applied to to receive a copy of your N.E.W.T. scores. The Ministry visit will take place at the end of January; you'll get a tour and meet with a panel of Ministry representatives."

"Is that part hard?" she wondered, "Gerald said it wasn't, but Kim Avery said it was."

She saw something flicker briefly across his expression, but it was too quick for her to decipher.

"Not usually," he said, after a brief pause. "It's typically a formality… they might take a few notes, or ask you what classes are your favorite, but for the most part they're there to answer your questions, and to try to convince the most talented students to take a lower-paying Ministry job instead of something more lucrative in the private sector."

"Well, I don't know about  _lucrative_ ," Calista said, "But I'm applying to St. Mungo's as well. They want a Transfiguration N.E.W.T. to be an Apprentice Healer, but there are other things I could do."

"You'd be well-qualified to work as a Potions Brewer for them," Severus observed, "But that's not really what you want to do, is it?"

Did he sound disappointed? Calista allowed a soft, flickering frown.

"It wouldn't be my top choice," she admitted, "But I'll probably apply for it anyway, in case… in case I don't get the other things I want." She tilted her head. "You can write me a recommendation, right? Or would they consider it a conflict of interest?"

"I suspect they will," Severus said, a bit grudgingly. "But I'll write one, anyway; I'll try to keep it factual, referencing your exam scores, and your Poisons and Antidotes Certification. The Mandrake Draught, too. Make sure you're putting your Award for Special Services to the School on all of your applications. And your Charms tutoring and status as a Prefect; that will all help."

Calista nodded. "I have been. I guess I need to get some other letters, then, and then I can owl my applications out…"

"Filius will write you one," Severus said, almost automatically. "I'd look for the others to be from professors who teach subjects related to the fields you're applying for. Pomona would be a good choice for anything related to Potions, a letter from her would show that you have a good grasp of the components as well —"

"Erm," Calista interrupted, a bit sheepishly, "I don't think Professor Sprout likes me very much."

"It doesn't matter if she  _likes_  you," he said, with a slight sneer, "She knows you're a good student."

"My fanged geranium wilted in fifth year," she reminded him. "And last year my Venomous Tentacula tried to attack her because I forgot to water it. I think… I think I should ask Professor Babbling instead. Maybe Professor Vector… although honestly, I can't tell if she likes me or not. I don't know if she likes anyone."

"I still fail to see why that matters," Severus said, "Do you think I  _like_  the majority of the students I write recommendations for?"

"I don't even know, half the time, if you like  _me_ ," Calista groused half-heartedly.

She expected him to reply with some sort of snark; perhaps that he wasn't certain of that, either. Or, barring that, he was likely to remind her, again, that she ought to go to bed sooner rather than later. Instead, he crossed the small kitchen, and sat down in the other chair, despite the fact that Calista's notes and books were covering the table's entire surface.

"Actually, Calista, while we're on the subject," he began, and something in her tone warned her that she was not going to like this at all.

She looked up, quickly. "On the subject of whether or not you like me?" she quipped hopefully; maybe she could distract him from whatever it was he was about to bring up.

"On the subject of recommendations," he said smoothly, letting her know that he would not be redirected again, "Did you know that I wrote one for Mr. Boot?"

"Yes," Calista said, "For the Wizengamot internship. He told me."

"Ah," Severus said, eyes not leaving her face, "And did you know that he didn't accept that internship?"

She nodded, slowly, and the heavy feeling in her gut intensified.

"In fact, from what I hear, he didn't end up accepting  _any_  of the internships he was offered," Severus said, and then he leaned forward slightly. "Have you… heard anything of a similar nature?"

While his tone was casual, his body language was anything but; without quite knowing why, Calista was suddenly on edge. Why should he care what Gerald was doing, really? Unless he was upset at the waste of what was clearly a large amount of talent — but then, so was  _she_ , and that's why she was trying to help him.

"Yes," Calista said, defensively — though, again, she wasn't sure why. "I know that. He's… he's been helping his mum out, working at Flourish and Blotts', still."

"You've known of this?" Severus said, eyes narrowing, "And you said nothing?"

Calista blinked, caught off-guard. "What? Why  _would_  I say anything? And I just found out on Halloween, anyway."

"It doesn't occur to you that I might not approve?"

"What is there to approve of?" she challenged, "You're not  _his_  father."

Something about saying that gave her a nasty crawling feeling along her spine; she felt guilty, again without understanding quite why.

"Ah, but I am yours," Severus said, with an iciness in his tone that made her need to suppress a shiver, "And I don't relish the idea of your continuing to entertain a relationship with someone who has decided, so easily, to… give up on himself. It doesn't bode well for his future, Calista, or for yours if you intend to carry this…  _relationship_ … on beyond your school years."

Several feelings rushed through Calista's mind in rapid succession; among them, she felt a spark of anger, and that was much easier to latch onto than any of the other things she was feeling; much easier to react to than the part of her that she didn't want to admit agreed with him to an extent, if not for precisely the same reasons.

"Well, as you said," she managed, aiming to match his iciness precisely, "I'm carrying it on  _beyond my school years_ ; which means I'll be a legal adult in every respect, and it's therefore really none of your business."

She'd gone too far with that, and she knew it instantly by the flashing in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

"You'd do well to remember that, at present, you  _are_  a student, and  _I_ still have more authority than you in a great many matters. Who from my House is allowed to visit the village, for instance."

He allowed his words to sink in, and Calista had a feeling they'd accomplished precisely what he'd meant them to. She hunched her shoulders, instantly contrite.

"You wouldn't do that," she said, uncertainly; but he would, she knew he would. He merely lifted a brow, as if in challenge, and she knew it for a fact.

She made a point of extending the silence between them; then, finally, haltingly she admitted, "I don't… I don't like it, either. But it's not really that unusual, is it, to take a year off after school?"

"For someone like Mr. Boot it is," Severus said, almost grimly. "There won't be as many opportunities if he does reapply this year; I doubt there will be any, next year. An internship isn't  _necessary_ , of course, but it helps a great deal,  _especially in_  the more professional fields — but you know this, and  _Boot_  knows this. I can't fathom why he thinks what he's doing is a wise idea."

"Well, he doesn't think that," Calista said quietly, "It's — complicated, all right? He has to help his mum, like I said, and there are… other factors. He doesn't  _want_ to be a bookstore clerk forever, he wants all the same things he always has. It's just…"

"Complicated?" Severus echoed, almost lightly, and Calista interpreted his tone as unconvinced; she snarled.

" _Yes_ ," she retorted, "It is. I suppose you don't think things can be that complicated for someone who's only eighteen, but I assure you,  _they can_."

She stood up, and started gathering her things, closing her textbooks and piling her sheets of notes on top of each other.

"I have no idea what gave you the impression that I would think that," he said, so softly she almost missed it, "But you're mistaken."

She picked up her quill, and started to pile the textbooks into her arms.

"Perhaps if you gave me some idea," Severus said, as she'd been afraid he might as soon as they'd landed on this topic, "Precisely what has complicated matters for Mr. Boot, I might be able to offer some advice."

Calista pressed her mouth briefly into a line; it was tempting, actually, especially since she knew that  _he_  had not gotten on well with his own father. In fact, she suspected he might very well have  _good_  advice, if she could ask him.

"I can't," she said, clutching her books to her chest, "I haven't asked him if it's allright to tell anyone, and I… I get the feeling he'd rather if I didn't. But I'm trying to help him work through it, because I… I agree, he's earned better than what he's doing. He was Head Boy and he has  _ten_  N.E.W.T. levels, for Merlin's sake, of  _course_  I know he's earned better, and he knows it, too. It's just… at the moment, he feels trapped. His mum might lose her job, you know, and he worries about his younger brother..."

She stopped; she'd probably already said too much; it wasn't precisely that Gerald wouldn't want Severus to know those things, but what she'd said was true: she hadn't asked if it was all right to share. And since he'd told her before that he didn't talk about his father with anyone besides her, he knew that at  _least_  that was off-limits, for this conversation.

Severus regarded her quite seriously for a minute; then he rose as well, and set one hand lightly on her shoulder.

"There is no danger, in whatever his...  _situation_  is?" he asked, keenly; he didn't specify, but she knew he meant danger to  _her_.

"No," she said, "There isn't. It's nothing like that."

He still looked uncertain, unconvinced. Calista swallowed, suddenly afraid that he might still decide to revoke her Hogsmeade privileges; she willed herself not to think of the Patronus she could no longer cast, knowing that would cement his doing so.

"Dad," she said quietly, "I… please just trust me, for now. I… I think you know that I —"

 _Love him_ ; Gods, that had almost come to her mouth  _too_  easily, and she couldn't say that aloud. Not when she wasn't certain whether Gerald felt the same, and not when she hadn't even said it to  _him_  yet.

She swallowed, again. "I think you know that I care about Gerald very much," she said, instead, "And I'm going to find a way to help him with this. I don't think I need to explain to you that he's… helped  _me_  a lot already."

"No," Severus said, and there was something so grave, so very serious in his voice that she had a sudden wild fear that he'd known, somehow what she had almost said. "You don't need to explain."

He said it with a sort of finality, as if he desperately didn't  _want_  her to try to explain; but that didn't make sense to her at all — after all, her father was a man who usually wanted to know, and to understand,  _everything_. It was undoubtedly where she'd gotten the same trait from.

"Anyway," she said, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "I should sleep; you were right about that. Good night, Dad."

"Good night," he said, lifting his hand from her shoulder. She nodded, and walked softly out of the little kitchen, still clutching her books.

"I would advise you," he said, after a few seconds, to her back, " _Both_  of you — not to let this get out of hand, whatever it is. Things have a way of… escalating, whether intended or not."

She paused, and looked over her shoulder. "I don't know what you mean," she said, heart racing; wasn't that exactly what she feared might happen, if Gerald didn't find a way to deal with his father  _now_? "I told you, it's nothing dangerous."

"Let's just say," her father said, "That I've known others to begin down a path that…" he paused; she couldn't tell if he was searching for the right words, or if it was for effect. "Disappeared behind them," he finally finished.

Suddenly, unbidden, Calista thought of the rat, lying mangled in a pool of its own blood.

 _Death Eaters can't produce a Patronus_.

"Good night," she said again, firmly, even though it most definitely wasn't, anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

On Friday, it was so rainy and windy that the entire castle was as dark as the dungeons usually were, and it was impossible to walk safely through the dungeon corridors without a lit wand. The spaces between torches were like pools of blackness. Walking through the corridors in the middle of the afternoon felt to Calista like she was sneaking around in the middle of the night, so much so that, out of habit, she kept looking over her shoulder for Filch.

The corridors were nearly deserted, which only intensified the effect, even once she'd left the dungeons. Most students had class on Fridays; if she'd been allowed to continue on to N.E.W.T. Transfiguration, she would have too. She tried not to feel too keenly the prick of shame that always came when she remembered that.

She went up to the first floor and stopped at a window in the corridor that had a view of the grounds. She could hardly see through the curtain of rain coming down; then the wind shifted, and fat drops of rain were driven against the window in a sudden torrent; Calista jumped back instinctively, then tried to suppress a flush of embarrassment as she glanced around to check whether anyone had seen.

She was still alone, except for Mrs. Norris, slinking around the corner. She scowled at the cat — the  _only_  cat she'd ever met that she didn't like.

"I'm allowed to be here," she said; her voice echoed strangely in the empty corridor.

" _Meow_ ," the cat replied, somehow managing to sound unconvinced and accusatory.

Calista had a sudden and ridiculous urge to stick her tongue out at the cat; if she were a few years younger, she surely would have done it, purely for the spiteful satisfaction. She was, however, seventeen years old and a Prefect, so she stepped away from the window and continued down the corridor instead.

Slytherin Quidditch practise would be starting soon, if they were even holding it. Marcus was usually loathe to cancel practice, but she didn't see, really, how they could possibly hold it in weather like  _this_ ; besides, she'd already heard that Hufflepuff was playing tomorrow instead of Slytherin, so it wasn't like they really needed to be out there today.

She walked to the Entrance Hall, even though she had no intention of going outside; whether or not the team was out there,  _she_  certainly wasn't going out in this weather. She had a vague idea of intercepting them in the Hall and letting Marcus know she wasn't going to meet him at the pitch later.

She stopped, as she approached the edge of the Hall.

"Oh," she said, feeling surprised to see Marcus standing there, even though she'd expected to. He wasn't with the rest of the team; he was alone, and he didn't have his broom or any of his equipment.

"Calista," Marcus smiled; when she didn't respond in kind, his smile faltered. "Erm — figured I'd wait here so you didn't go out in the rain looking for me."

"I wasn't going to." She realised, again, that she sounded rude. She exhaled. "Looks like you weren't, either. No cloak."

"Yeah…" Marcus shrugged. "No sense making the guys go out in this when we're off the hook tomorrow, anyway, right?"

"I guess."

A few beats of awkward silence passed; then Marcus took a couple of steps closer to her. Some instinct in her whispered at her to move; she wasn't sure if it meant towards him or away from him. She stayed where she was.

"Well, we're not going to the pitch," Marcus pointed out, "So... somewhere else, then. Maybe… maybe the Owl—"

"No," she cut in, very quickly. "Not there." It would be too awkward; they'd gone there too many times together. Besides, it seemed she ran into Terry practically every time she went, and even though this — whatever  _this_  was — was nothing, she didn't really want him  _or_  his brother to wonder about it.

"Anyway," she added, "Wouldn't Hecate be angry if you went there with  _me_?"

"Hopefully," Marcus said, "It would make things easier. Hang on, will you?" he took a few steps past her now, craning his neck to look down the corridor.

"Make  _what_  easier?" she snarled at his back; she could feel days and weeks and — if she were being truly honest — months and  _years_  of exhaustion and poor sleep and anxiety pushing against her skin from the inside, and the vague unease this conversation was giving her was proving to be a tipping point.

She realised she sounded like her father, and all at once she thought she understood his short temper, his reputation for being impatient and moody. Gods, she really  _was_  like him, wasn't she?

"You sound like your dad," Marcus said, almost offhand; she suppressed a tiny, self-satisfied smile. After the dream she'd had the other night, it almost seemed like reassurance. If she was like her father, then she couldn't be terribly like her mother, could she?

"Right," Marcus continued, turning back to face her, "So you clearly don't want to go off anywhere with me — I get it, right, but I  _promise_  I'm not going to — to try to... " he trailed off, and she could see his cheeks flushing with colour. "I'm not planning anything funny," he finally settled for, "There's just — something I kind of need help with and I…"

"You need  _my_  help with something?" Calista echoed, "But you dropped Potions, didn't you?"

"It's not  _homework_ ," he scowled, "It's — it's something  _personal_ , all right? But I don't want to — I mean, I can't… look, can we just go  _somewhere_  to talk? An empty classroom, or whatever?"

She remembered the last time they'd been in an empty classroom together… it was Halloween, last year. The night they'd broken up. She scrambled to come up with a suggestion before he thought of the Divination classroom. That would feel awkward, too.

"Fine," she said, "The Defence classroom. It's supposed to be Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seventh years, but Professor Lupin's cancelled classes all week. My dad's been covering some, but I know he has his own class now, so I reckon the room's empty."

Marcus nodded, and trailed a pace or two behind her as she traced a path to the first-floor classroom.

"Saw you and Boot in Hogsmeade last time," Marcus said, conversationally, behind her; she stiffened, and walked faster.

"Don't start," she warned him, and he was quiet for a minute. Then:

"I think you were arguing. Something about dementors, and anyway, I could tell you were cross. Figured you were about to yell at him and storm off, 'cause that's what you always did with me. Was kind of hoping for it actually, that git was so smug after Dueling Club last year when you took his side —"

" _Marcus_ ," she snarled, throwing a glare over her shoulder.

"But you didn't," Marcus continued, though she noticed he'd let himself trail half a pace further behind, "He said something, and then you weren't cross anymore. Think you even held his hand."

Calista stopped walking, and spun around to face him, narrowing her eyes. They were near the classroom now, but she wasn't about to go in if  _this_  was what he wanted to talk about.

"What exactly is your point?" she asked, injecting an edge of menace into her tone.

Marcus stopped suddenly when she did, and blinked at her. Then he let out a small, nervous chuckle.

"Don't know if I have one," he finally said, "Just — you know, I guess… I guess I thought it was nice that someone can make you feel better, just like that. Make you happy. Even if it  _is_  that arsehole Boot."

Calista blinked; she hadn't been expecting him to say anything like that at all — except may be the last bit. She rather expected that.

"Erm," she said, "I don't really know how to respond to that. Half of it was surprisingly nice, and the other half makes me want to hex you."

"Yeah, but you're a Prefect now, so you won't," Marcus' mouth slipped into a sly grin. "Plus, I think maybe you never would have, anyway." He caught sight of something in her expression, and added, hastily: "Not that I want to test that, mind you."

She felt her own mouth quirking into something dangerously close to a smile; she suppressed it, with far more effort than she expected. For just a moment, it wasn't so difficult to imagine how they'd been friends, once.

Marcus started walking again, and this time it was him leading the way. He poked his head experimentally through the half-open door of the Defence classroom, and then beckoned her in.

She went, careful to keep the door still largely open, though she did reluctantly follow him towards the back of the classroom, out of sight of the doorway.

"All right," she said, working to keep her voice even; she realised she was nervous being alone in the empty classroom with him, but she didn't want  _him_  to know that. "What did you want to ask me?"

Marcus hedged; he shifted from one foot to the other. "Your dad's been a right temper lately, huh?" he said, "Draco said he assigned all the third years extra homework for the Defence classes he covered. Some essay. Two  _rolls_  of parchment, he said."

Calista didn't need to be a Legilimens to see he was deliberately changing the subject. She quirked a brow expectantly, and waited for him to get to the point.

Marcus quailed under her gaze and scuffed his toe against the floor. "Right," he said, "Erm, the thing I need to ask you is… ah, I need you to tell me how to break up with someone."

" _What?_ "

"Well, you're the only one I know who's  _done_  it," Marcus pointed out, scowling now as he looked up, "And I keep trying and she just pretends I never said anything, and I don't know what to  _do_."

"Seriously? You… you want  _me_  to tell you how to break up with  _Hecate Rowle_? You've got to be having me on."

"Please," Marcus said, almost desperately, "I'm not, I swear. I've tried three times already."

"What?" she asked again, shaking her head. "How do you  _try_  — no, nevermind, I don't want to know. I don't want to have anything to do with this."

"She's bloody mental, Calista. You've got to help me, before she does something mad."

"Just — just  _tell_ her you don't want to be with her anymore," Calista said, softening slightly; after all, he was hardly the first person to tell her a similar thing about Hecate. "I mean, if that's what you really want."

"I tried," Marcus said, "The first time was sort of my own fault, but the second time… I'm pretty sure she said something to my parents. My mum wrote me the next day, saying a bunch of stuff about how I should treat my girlfriend nicer, I was raised better than that, blah blah blah. I'm afraid to ask what she told them."

"Why would she write to your parents?" Calista wrinkled her nose.

"They've been writing back and forth for ages," Marcus said, unhappily, "My parents  _love_  her. Well… they love the fact that her aunt is some secretary or something for Fudge, and she's a pureblood. Nevermind that she's a bloody nightmare…"

Calista frowned, considering. Her gut was telling her not to get involved in this at all, but… what Marcus was saying, about his family pressuring him to stay with Hecate because of her bloodline and her supposed connections… it struck a nerve, and she felt bad for him, despite herself.

"The third time I told her I was done, she just laughed at me and said 'No you're not' all scary-sounding… then — this is the mental part — she came into my room in the  _middle of the night_  and wrapped one of her necklaces around my broomstick. Just to show me she could do something to it, if she wanted."

"Wow." Calista shook her head. "What… what happened the first time, anyway?"

"Erm." Marcus shifted. She saw his face start to turn red. "She — ah, got me to change my mind."

"How?"

"She, erm… she gave me ah — erm, something."

Calista blinked, and wrinkled her nose. "Like… like a gift?"

Marcus exhaled, looking relieved; she noticed his eyes dart around the room, anywhere but at her. "Yeah, yeah, something like that," he said quickly, "A — a  _really_ nice gift. Anyway, it doesn't matter. It was a mistake; I've got to ditch her before she does something else mental."

"Well couldn't you… couldn't you give the gift back, or something?"

"Ah… no, it's not really that kind of…" he glanced at her quickly; a smirk flashed briefly across his features, and then he shook his head. "Nevermind, all right? Just — just tell me what I have to do to get her to back off."

Calista's eyes narrowed again. "What was that look for?"

"What look?"

"That  _look_ ," she said, "You… you just had it, for a second. Like something was funny."

"Nothing," Marcus said, and then he looked up at her, again, and the look returned. "Just — just glad Boot's obviously not getting anything more than I did — reckon he really  _is_ a wanker, then, after all."

Marcus chuckled at his own joke; Calista felt two waves of heat wash over her in quick succession. The first was a prickling embarrassment, as she finally understood his joke and the implications it carried — the second was rage, seething along her skin and causing her fingers to itch to draw her wand —

"Ah, shit," Marcus said quickly, "I was joking Calista, calm down — come on, it's  _funny,_ I didn't mean anything by it —"

" _You're disgusting_ ," she said, fiercely, clenching her hand into a fist to give her fingers something satisfying to do  _besides_ reach for the wand in her pocket. She searched for words that might make him feel as uncomfortable as he'd just made her feel. "But thank you for reminding me why I'd choose Gerald instead of  _you_  a hundred times over, if I could."

Marcus snorted. "You think he doesn't want the same thing as every other guy? Come on, that git's been wanking off to you since you were  _my_ girlfriend."

Calista's fingers flew open, but she didn't go for her wand; instead, she reached it up and stepped forward, smacking him across the face; she expected it to feel satisfying, and it did, but it did nothing to alleviate the knot that had just dropped into her stomach.

"Ah, shit," Marcus said again, rather sheepishly. He rubbed his cheek, where she'd just hit him. "Reckon I deserved that — no wait, hang on, don't go, I'm sorry —"

She'd already been moving away from him, but he caught her by the edge of her sleeve.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quickly, "I shouldn'tve said that, I know. Look, I won't… I won't say anything else about it, all right?"

She yanked her arm away. "You're bloody right you won't," she snarled, "In fact — don't bother saying  _anything_  to me, ever again."

"Calista, come on, you know I always say stupid stuff — don't be cross, come on, I need your help…"

She was nearly at the door now, but she paused; she took a steadying breath, and found that she was able to look at him levelly over her shoulder; the flood of anger that had filled her had been partially satisfied by slapping him, and she forced the rest of it down, behind a curtain, so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing it.

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to say 'stupid stuff'. Have fun with Hecate — have fun with her  _doing stuff to your broomstick_."

"That's  _not_ funny —"

"Actually," Calista said, "It is."

"It's true, what I said about Boot," Marcus added, following her to the doorway, "Or don't you know the  _real_ reason I hit him, in Dueling Club?"

"I do know the real reason," she shot back, "It's because you're an arsehole."

"Nah," Marcus said, "It was 'cause of what he said to me, a couple days before. We were in Divination — and yeah, I was taking the piss, all right, predicting he was fit to be bloodied up real soon because of Mars or whatever — and he goes, 'That's odd, Flint, because I took a look at  _your_  star chart, and it says you've lost something precious you'll never get back — seems she's finally realized she's too good for you.'"

"So what? We were  _friends_. None of my friends liked the way you acted."

"No one in Slytherin had any problem with us," he corrected, "It was all your smarmy little Arithmancy friends that didn't like me, And anyway,  _that's_  not why I hit Boot. It was for what he said after. I said 'What, you think you've got a shot?' and he gives me this shit-eating grin and goes 'Been working on it, haven't I? We are  _friends_ , after all. Isn't that how you two got started?'"

Calista took another step back, out into the corridor. "He didn't say that."

"Oh, yes, he did," Marcus said, with an air of grim satisfaction. 'That look on his face — I reckon he knew exactly what he was doing all along. How'd he start up being your  _friend_ , anyway? I s'pose he started chatting you up about some book, eh?"

The knot in Calista's stomach shifted and tightened; suddenly, she was feeling quite nauseous. "That's none of your business," she managed, surprisingly steady.

"I bet that's it," Marcus continued; Calista didn't know why she stayed to listen. The knot in her stomach was squirming a warning, now. "'Specially now I found out from Derek he  _requested_  to patrol the library with you last year. You know — when  _we_  were still together. Give the wanker one thing, he's clever."

Calista clenched her teeth briefly against the uneasy feeling that was creeping its way up her throat, now.

"Some — some way you have, of asking for help," she managed. Then she turned away, and hurried as quickly as she could to the nearest toilet. She nearly ran into someone in the corridor; she didn't bother to apologise, or even check who it was.

She wasn't sick; she did manage to control that. Though, since she'd hardly been able to eat, with the image of the lifeless rat manifesting in her head whenever she tried, she supposed there wouldn't have been much to lose, anyway.

Marcus was lying, at least about Gerald fancying her before she and Marcus had broken up… after all, what had he said, months later, in the library?

 _I can't deny that some of my feelings for you have evolved beyond friendship,_ or something like that. It  _did_  sound like something very gradual, didn't it? Precisely the way  _she_  had slowly realised her feelings for him, in the months after she and Marcus broke up, when she'd begun seeing him more and more often…

But then she remembered what Terry had told her, in the Owlery. She'd dismissed it at the time, assumed that Terry had misread their friendship. After all, as she'd told him, when Gerald had invited Calista to his birthday party, she'd still been going out with Marcus; he couldn't possibly have fancied her, yet.

 _Well, yeah,_  she could almost hear Terry saying again,  _That's why he wanted to keep it secret._

 _Well, so what?_  she said fiercely, to herself.  _It's probably not true, and so what if it is? It doesn't change anything._

Except, after all their talk about the importance of honesty and trust, and the fact that he'd never said anything about it, not even after they'd been going out for almost a year… wasn't there a distinct possibility that it  _did?_

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

"This is pointless," Calista snarled, "It's impossible, I'll never get through your barriers this way. Shouldn't we go back to practising the regular spell?"

"No," Severus said, "We can't; not anymore. Keep eye contact with me, I suspect it will help. And feel free to cycle through alternate runes - I've seen your notes, you've got more written down than just those three."

Calista drew in a breath; gods, she was tired. She'd had the same dream again, last night, about the classroom. Only this time, Professor Lupin hadn't been there at all; her father had been teaching the class, and he'd assigned her two rolls of parchment on why her Patronus was failing.

"RIght," she said, quietly, and she lifted her finger. ' _Sensum'_

She traced the rune's shape with her finger. ' _Mentis. Apertum'._

"Eye contact," he reminded her, "Look at me."

Reluctantly, she obeyed, meeting his gaze; even though  _she_  was the one meant to be practising Legilimency just now, she couldn't suppress the fear that he might read the memory of her dream, if she looked directly at him.

' _Sensum,'_  she started again, tracing the rune pattern: and this time, she could feel something… she thought she could sense the solid, forbidding wall that formed the first barrier to his mind.

' _Mentis. Apertum.'_ She could  _sense_  it; but she couldn't get through it.

"Keep trying," he murmured.

' _Aperio,'_  she tried, cycling through a couple of other likely runes, ' _Patefacus.'_

She sucked in a breath; it was as if the wall of his mind had shifted, and eased; now it was like a veil, or a curtain.

' _Recludo._ ' Now it was like a window without any glass; she quickened the movement of her fingers, and tried one of the runes from the next set she'd written down, tracing its shape. ' _Paellegus.'_

She could sense his thoughts now, swirling around with little logical order; but the window through which she could glimpse them was narrowing.

' _Recludo'_ , she traced the rune again, and the window widened; then she traced the second one, before it could close up again.  _'Paellegus.'_

She could sense the thoughts again, the visions and memories; but she had to find a way to grab onto them, to make sense of them.

' _Percipio',_  she tried; nothing changed. The memories continued to swirl, and the window began shrinking again.

' _Recludo',_ she started again, _'Paellegus. Intellego.'_

' _You will each write an essay,' he said, surveying the class scornfully. His lips curled as his eyes passed over Potter — Potter, whose skin he was always trying to save, and who would never properly appreciate it. 'To be handed in to me, on the ways you recognise and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning.'_

_A long, dark corridor — a flash, a blur of grey motion, at the end —_

The window snapped shut, and she was forced suddenly and jarringly back into her own mind; for a second, she thought he'd pushed her out, but then she realised she hadn't remembered to account for its gradual closing, behind her.

"I had it, for a second," she said, feeling an encouraging spark. "I saw you assigning an essay. Isn't third year a little soon for werewolves? We didn't cover them until fifth year."

Severus' eyes flickered. "Oh, I think I assigned that essay  _just in time_ ," he said; there was something eerie in his tone. She wondered what the other memory was, the thing she'd only begun to glimpse…

"I thought I saw something else, too," she ventured, "A… a tunnel, maybe."

"Indeed?" he asked; he leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps you should try the spell again."

"I — it's difficult," she admitted, "The runes… they each seem to wear off after a few seconds. I can only read one memory at a time, and then I have to start over. And it's… exhausting."

 _Especially because I can't sleep more than an hour at a time without having that bloody dream_ , she thought; she swept her gaze away from him.

"Take a moment to rest," he advised, "And then try the spell again."

"Why can't I use my wand?" she asked, "The  _real_  spell?"

"Can you really not guess?" There was something odd, again, in his tone. She looked at him again, drawing a thick mental curtain around the memory of the dream, just in case.

She was quiet; of course she could guess, but she didn't want to. Her best guesses sat too close to things she didn't want to think about, things that she'd been systematically burying in the deepest recesses of her mind since July.

"I don't lie to you," he told her, after the silence had stetched between them. "But there are…  _things_  I cannot tell you. Things you have no business knowing; things you have no business knowing  _yet_ ; and things that would place you in danger if you knew them."

"Well, you can hide those where I can't get to them, like you did before, can't you?"

"Perhaps," Severus said; he stood up from the armchair across from hers, and then he crouched in front of hers. It put her in mind of earlier conversations, over the years. Conversations where she'd been much smaller… conversations where he'd had to tell her something difficult…

"You must feel it," he said, quietly; his eyes were on her, and she wanted to look away, to ensure he wouldn't glimpse any of the things she wasn't ready to discuss: her dreams, her failed Patronus, the pervading image of the mangled, bloody rat — but his gaze was like a magnet. Or, perhaps, it was his words that held her. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep the thick, dark, mental blanket over all of those forbidden thoughts.

"You must feel that you've grown more powerful," he said, very softly.

She swallowed. She could think of nothing, now, nothing but the blasted rat. She thought she could smell the musty, coppery smell of its blood mixed with the decaying leaves beneath.

"I might be able to keep my secrets," he told her, in the same tone, "Or — I might not."

"More powerful," she couldn't quite stop herself from saying, "You mean with  _Dark_  magic."

"Legilimency is not one of the Dark Arts."

"But you haven't let me try it properly since the summer," she said; she felt a sharp pain as the ever-present knot in her stomach tugged at her throat, and grew larger. "We don't  _know_  if I'm any better that that. All we  _know_  is that… is that I killed that rat."

She made to leap up; she wanted to run away, though she had no notion of where to go, since she had more reason than ever to avoid her common room. She didn't have time to think of an alternative before her father was on his feet, too, and he caught her up, but not in the way she expected, by the shoulder or by the edge of her cloak.

Instead, he caught her up in a hard, fierce embrace, and it was so rare and unexpected that she didn't try to leave it.

" _You did nothing wrong,_ " he said quietly and firmly, right into her ear. "You aren't, and you'll never be, a Dark witch."

 _Then why can't I produce a Patronus anymore?_  The words were burning a hole as they tore their way out of her gut and up into her throat; her mouth opened.

"Then why —" she started; she found that the burning in her stomach was only getting worse. Saying it wasn't going to make her feel any better. She closed her mouth.

"Why  _what_?" her father asked quietly, still right by her ear; he still held onto her, just as he had that day in the forest, when she'd first realised what she'd done.

"Why is it only Dark spells?" she finished, instead; she felt an unpleasant, aching feeling as the words slipped back down her throat and reattached themselves to the hard, heavy knot in the pit of her stomach. "The only ones we know are stronger are Dark spells…"

"That's woefully incorrect," he told her, as factually and as impatiently if she'd given the wrong list of potions ingredients in class, "Your Freezing Charm and all of the healing spells I've seen you use are stronger. You're also a stronger Occlumens than you were, prior to…"

She felt something rising up in her throat again.  _Please don't say it_ , she willed him; she didn't want to think of that deceptive, silvery memory. She didn't want to think of her nose against the filmy surface of the Pensieve, the last moment she'd had to change her mind and reject the memory… the last chance she'd had, evidently, to preserve her Patronus.

"Prior to this past summer," he finished.

"I made a mistake," she said; even though he  _hadn't_  said it, she could still see the shadowed shifting and twisting, as the memory had spun to life around her. She could still see the terror in the little memory-girl's eyes; she could still  _feel_ it, as she watched her mother snatch that poor little girl up, and toss her on that fucking black sofa she'd hated so much…

"What mistake, Calista?" her father asked gently, pulling back just enough to look at her, "Whatever it is… I'll help you."

She felt her heart skip a beat; why hadn't she thought of this before?

"Even if… even if you don't like it?" she asked.

Severus nodded, tightly. "Anything," he said, "As long as it doesn't put you in danger."

Yes; she felt the first flicker of hope she'd felt in weeks. "Remove it," she said, quietly.

Something shifted in his eyes, but she couldn't read it. He said nothing.

"The memory," Calista said, in case he hadn't understood. Suddenly, she thought she could smell the coppery scent of blood again; only this time, it might not have belonged to the rat, because she could also see the  _same_  thing she saw, every single time her Patronus failed: crude slashes in a familiar pattern, carved into the waxy white flesh of a skinny child. Even though she knew the lines were not red anymore, no longer seeped with blood, she couldn't quite imagine them any other way. She imagined the pattern on her back, if she dared to look at it again, would be as bright scarlet as the one on her mother's arm had been, when the Dark Lord wasn't calling her — as vivid and red as the bit of it she'd glimpsed on her father's arm, that day in the forest.

"It was a mistake," she repeated; she felt suddenly dizzy, lightheaded. She shook her head, trying to force the images away. "I shouldn't have taken it back…"

Her father's eyes were suddenly discernible to her; they were bleak. There was no other word for it.

"Calista… "

"Please," she said, quietly, "I want you to remove it again."

"Calista, I can't."

His voice sounded terrible; it sounded as if each word was breaking him.

"Of course you can," she said, "You — you did it once. Do it again."

Now that she had asked, it seemed unbearable that he might not do it; coward's way out or not, it was the only thing she could imagine that might make her patronus come back. Her heart sank, as his expression remained unchanged, and he shook his head, regretfully.

"Your mind is not the same now as it was then. It was… it had already been torn, damaged… You were so much younger, the mind of a child is much more elastic, much more amenable to alteration… Calista, I cannot do it, now. I cannot remove it, not without an enormous risk of significantly damaging your mind."

"How enormous?" she whispered; she could feel a lump rising in her throat and she wasn't sure if it was tears or vomit, so she clenched her jaw against it, after that.

"You  _are_  strong enough," he told her; his voice had changed in pitch, almost keening, almost wheedling; she realised with a terrible sort of clarity that he was asking her to agree; that he was no longer certain of it himself. "You  _are_."

She shook her head, panic rising in her gut, and with it, words:

 _I'm not, and I'll never produce a Patronus again._ The words were in her mouth, they were going to come out at any moment, and Merlin, after all  _this_ , perhaps it would be a relief. At least she wouldn't have to hide it, anymore.

But her father gripped her shoulders, and spoke sternly, before she did. "You  _are_  strong enough," he told her, a third time; she believed it less every time he said it. "You just need — you just need more  _time_."

Oh, gods; he didn't believe it, himself. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she really _was_  a stronger Legilimens… because she could read the doubt in his eyes as plain as if he'd told her,

_We've both made a terrible mistake._

"We'll… we'll go back to practicing other Defensive spells for now," he told her, quietly, "You wanted to work on the accuracy of your Shield Charm, correct?"

Calista freed herself from his grip, and nodded. She had no idea if she was managing to keep her feelings out of her face, but she suspected that if she had really grown more powerful as he said, she probably was. It was better, then; better if he could not see the despair that was gnawing holes through her insides.

It was strange, really; she'd argued with him for weeks over not wanting to continue to practise Dark magic; and then, when he finally relented, she felt as if she'd lost, rather than won. After all, if he  _truly_ believed that the returned memory hadn't changed who she was, wouldn't he have insisted that things continue on as they had been?

"Yeah," she said, trying very hard to sound relieved, even when she felt anything but. "Shield Charms. That's good."

"Calista…"

"I should go. I have... I have…"

She cast about for an excuse, and realised she didn't have one.

"You have lessons with me," he said, tiredly; he lifted an arm. She thought he might try to hug her again, or touch her shoulder reassuringly, and she tried not to reveal how desperately she would have welcomed it; after a moment, he wavered, and lowered his arm again.

"You can go," he said quietly, "If that's what you want."

It wasn't what she wanted; what she  _wanted_  was to reach into her mind, and pull every last blasted thread from that memory out, and she  _wanted_  to cast her Patronus, to see the silvery light of it, and know that she  _wasn't going bad._

She nodded again, and left his quarters wordlessly.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

On Saturday, Calista heard that dementors had invaded the Quidditch pitch during the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, and Harry Potter, the Gryffindor seeker, had fallen off his broom. Despite herself — despite the way that she knew Draco and her father felt about Potter, she felt a twinge of pity. She knew what it was like, after all, to succumb to the cold, the emptiness, that the dementors brought…

She'd heard from more than one person that Professor Dumbledore had been absolutely livid, and that the dementors would be wise not to make another appearance within the boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds. Even so, she resolved not to go outside on her own anymore unless she had to.

She overheard Draco taking cracks at Potter again, for his reaction, and she considered reprimanding him again — but what was the point? He hadn't listened last time; she had no reason to believe he would, this time, and she didn't want to remind him again that it wasn't onlyPotter who evidently couldn't handle the dementors' presence...

On Sunday, she got a letter back from Gerald. She almost didn't open it, for precisely the same reasons she had taken so long to open his last letter, and perhaps a few more besides.

She was sitting on one of the long sofas in the Slytherin common room. The weather had cleared, and was surprisingly warm for November, so a lot of students had gone outside. Those that remained in the Slytherin common room were apt to leave her alone, so long as she kept her face in a book.

She stared at the letter for a minute, and then shoved it into the back pages of the book she was reading.

' _Mrrrw.'_ A reproachful sound, and the deft prick of a claw into her tights reminded her that she'd been neglecting to pet Yellow the whole time she was staring at the letter. She reached her fingers down and patted the cat's head idly —

— and she had a flash of memory, of sitting on a different couch, in the living room of the house in Cokeworth, where she'd been petting Yellow just like this… Gerald had been on her other side. She remembered telling him about how Yellow had gotten his name, and she remembered the way he'd comforted her; the way that kissing him had somehow made her feel better…

' _Mrrrw,'_  Yellow said again, looking up at her with wide, yellow-green eyes.

"Oh,  _all right,_ " she whispered down to the cat; then she withdrew the letter from her book, and opened it.

_Mon colibri,_

_I'm so sorry I can't be there with you. My heart aches with worry, even though I know you can take care of yourself quite well. I wish there was something substantive I could do to help; writing letters hardly seems to suffice._

_I really have to question the usefulness of having the dementors at the castle, if Black managed to enter the castle, anyway; the Ministry keeps saying they're doing everything they can to recapture him, but I can't help but suspect that someone must be aiding him if that's so. I know you're aware of the rumours, that You-Know-Who's followers didn't all end up in Azkaban; perhaps someone in the Ministry is deliberately looking the other way._

_Calista, ma bien-aimée_ ,  _please don't worry about me at all; I have things handled for now, with my father and with helping my mother out. If you can find the time to write, now and again, that's all I really need._

_I want you to concentrate on your studies, and on staying safe, and — if you can manage — on getting a decent night's sleep now and then. I know it's difficult. If there's anything at all I can do to help, please tell me. Perhaps we can talk on the fire, or you can write me when you wake in the middle of the night. If I could Apparate there to talk you through your nightmares, I would; I know what it's like to feel frightened and alone in the dark._

_Sometimes, I find getting out of bed and doing something else for a little while can help. The dreams don't always come back when you go back to sleep. There's something else, too; it's corny, I suppose, but sometimes I sleep with something under my pillow that is dear to me, or that reassures me. I like to think it makes the nightmares come less frequently. I suppose you can guess that right now, it's your hair ribbon that I'm keeping there. I don't want to presume that you'd find something of mine comforting in the same way, but if you would, I'd be glad to send it._

_For now, I'm writing down some of my favourite protective runes; perhaps you can hold onto them, or try to work them into one of your spells. I'm sending one other thing, too, even though you can't see it: I've whispered a charm of sorts into the parchment of this letter; something I hope you can feel when you're lonely, and something I hope will give you light when you wake up in the dark._

_I miss you terribly. Six weeks left._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

Beneath the text of the letter, there was a line of runes; many of them were familiar to her, and the rest were very  _close_  to runes that she knew. She suspected the slightly unfamiliar ones were French, like the one he'd shown for  _hummingbird_ : ah, and that one was included too, nestled between runes for  _shield_  and for  _guardian_.

She felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth; it wasn't  _quite_  a smile, but…

Merlin, he was impossibly sweet — as much, in fact, as he was impossibly corny. It was hard to let herself consider anything Marcus had said, in the face of this letter; it was hard to consider anything besides what sort of charm it was that he'd whispered into the parchment.

A charm  _of sorts_ ; that meant it wasn't really a proper charm, then didn't it? It could be another set of runes. There were a few she'd almost sent him, in a letter over the summer…  _Eros, Amorus._ She'd wondered, at the time, if writing them down would have frightened him off… but his letters didn't  _sound_  like they were from someone who would be driven off by that. His letters were nothing like she'd ever imagined a boy could write.

She slipped his letter into her pocket, and shifted her cat away from her lap carefully, catching another claw as she did so. She tucked her book under her arm, and rose. Her parchment and quills were in her dormitory room and unfortunately, the last time she'd been in it, so was Olivia Avril. She started to prepare herself mentally for whatever her roommate might say —

" _There_ she is!" There was the sound of stone on stone, the common room door grinding open, and then a smug, impossibly gleeful voice rang out. "Going somewhere, Calista?"

Calista paused, and exhaled, knowing the voice and hoping she was wrong.

"It's really none of your business, Hecate," she said evenly, shifting the weight of her book to her other arm; there was something in the girl's expression… something about the glint in her eye. She had a feeling she was about to find out precisely what it was about.

"Oh, but it  _is_ ," Hecate said, grinning widely, "As I've just been asked to fetch you to the Headmaster's office."

"Liar." What could the Headmaster  _possibly_  want with her? She hadn't done anything in the last few days that could get her in any trouble with the school; hadn't even been in the corridors past curfew, hadn't been late to any of her Prefect patrols.

"He says you should come see him straightaway," Hecate said, raising her voice, even though there were only a handful of students in the common room and they had undoubtedly all heard her the first time. "I hear he has a lot of questions about how Sirius Black got into the castle… and it seems someone gave him the…hm,  _impression_ that you might have a few of the answers."

There was a flurry of whispers now, in the common room. Calista felt her heart sink, and then begin to beat very rapidly; her fingers felt weak, and she nearly dropped the book she was carrying.

Then, lining her brows up in determination, she gripped the book more tightly.

"Fine," she said, every bit as loudly as Hecate had spoken, "I'm happy to go and answer his questions, since I have nothing to hide. Oh — and while you're here, Hecate, I should warn you that I'll have to take House points the next time you sneak into the boys' dormitory at night. After all, someone might get the wrong…  _impression_."

Hecate scowled, as the flurry of whispers rose to an outright din — Calista distinctly heard a very impolite word, and for once, it  _wasn't_  aimed at her. She suppressed a smirk, and breezed past Hecate.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

It was one thing to feign bravado in front of a snotty, foul fifth-year girl; it was quite another thing entirely to feel any semblance of it as she stood at the entrance to the Headmaster's quarters.

She'd only been here twice, before. Once, when she was very small, and she'd been so panicked she hardly remembered  _anything_ , and once last year… when she'd made the decision to re-absorb the memory that had robbed her of her Patronus. She hoped he had hidden the little vials of memory away, or she might be tempted to smash them out of spite.

Calista realised she'd never been here before without her father, except for when he'd left her alone inside, briefly, when he'd gone out to speak to the Headmaster. She wished she'd thought to stop by his office on the way.  _He_  knew she had nothing to do with letting Black into the castle.

She was considering going back to do just that, to ask him to come here with her — but then, without warning, the gargoyle leapt aside, revealing a circular staircase. A door at the top was ajar.

"Please come in, Calista."

She felt her heart thudding even more readily, now; that was  _definitely_ the Headmaster's voice. Any last vestige of hope she'd clung to that Hecate had been playing a prank on her vanished immediately. She took the steps slowly, one at a time.

"I must be horrid company," the Headmaster remarked, when she was halfway up the stairs, "Nearly every visitor I receive looks precisely as unhappy as you do."

She looked up, quickly; there was an unmistakable smile on his face, and a twinkle in his eye that — well, that she could only describe as friendly. She faltered; this wasn't making any sense at all.

The Headmaster chuckled, and retreated to the side of the doorway. She took the last few steps quickly, and tried to slow the beating of her heart while he shut the door gently and firmly behind her.

Professor Dumbledore crossed the office, and settled himself down behind his desk. He gestured with one hand to an empty seat across from it, and then waved his wand twice. Two teacups, both emitting fragrant steam, appeared on the surface of the desk.

"Have a seat, please, Calista. Do you take sugar in your tea?"

He carried on waving his wand while she perched awkwardly in the chair in front of his desk; two sugarcubes came out of the end of it and plopped into his tea, without spilling a single drop.

"Erm — no."

"Milk?"

"No," she said again.

 _I don't take tea at all_. She didn't dare tell him that, though; didn't dare ask if he had any coffee. Not when she had no idea why she was even here.

Professor Dumbledore lifted his own teacup and took a sip. "Breakfast tea," he said, "At two in the afternoon. But such actions are precisely what give Gryffindor a reputation for boldness, I suppose." He set the cup down, and regarded her with an even, guileless stare.

She felt a jolt in her stomach; it was nearly precisely how he'd looked at her the last time they'd met… and the first time. She'd realised last time that he was trying to read her, and when she surveyed the surface of her outermost barrier, searching — ah, yes,  _there_. She could feel his presence again, vague and light like the legs of a water bug, skimming over the edge of her mind.

"I've had several students come to me in the last few days, suggesting that I speak to you regarding Sirius Black's infiltration of the castle," he said; his tone was as light as if he'd told her it was cloudy outside.

"I don't know anything about that, sir," she said, managing to keep her voice steady; she was afraid he might not believe her if she didn't, as wild as the accusation was. "At least, no more than any of the other  _Prefects_  do."

She stressed the word, slightly; reminding him that she was one, and that  _he_  had approved her appointment. Perhaps it would help.

The old man smiled, quite kindly. "Oh, I know that, Calista. As you may have heard me tell your father on the night of the incident itself — I do not believe a single person in this castle would help Black enter it. That, my dear, includes yourself."

She breathed a sigh of relief; still, that left the question as to why she was here, if it wasn't that.

"I've said as much to your classmates that came to me," he said, "And I've let them all know that no such further insinuations are to be made, about you or about anyone else in this castle."

 _Hecate must have missed that part_ , Calista thought sourly.

The Headmaster tilted his head forward slightly, and took another tip of tea.

"Though, I daresay my words may have done nothing to disarm certain…  _personal_  grudges."

She blinked, and looked hastily down at her teacup, to avoid looking at him.

"I guess not." The scent of the tea wafted up, and she wrinkled her nose. She would have given nearly anything, in that moment, for a mug of coffee. She lifted her gaze again, away from the disappointment of the teacup, and studied the row of portraits on the wall behind him. "Professor, sir, why am I here, if you know I had nothing to do with Sirius Black getting in?"

"Your father had a concern about you this week as well. An entirely different concern; something he asked me if we could do. He knew, of course, just as I'm certain you understand, that the thing he asked for is not possible. But then, Severus would certainly not be the first parent who yearns to give their child an impossible thing, out of love…"

Calista stared at a portrait behind him, working at keeping her face neutral. She studied the sharp profile, the wing of black hair, so that she could avoid looking at the Headmaster.

"Anyway, Calista, to properly answer your question: I thought perhaps it was a good time for us to have a chat."

"Is that — I mean, is this — something you do with all of the seventh years?" she wondered. Maybe it was something about the internships, although neither Gerald or Endria had ever told her anything about meeting with Professor Dumbledore.

"Is she one of mine, then, Albus?"

Calista started; instead of the Headmaster answering her, the portrait she'd been staring at had suddenly spoken; the painted eyes were watching her with a mild, cool interest.

"Ah, Phineas," the Headmaster said, without looking over his shoulder; in fact, his eyes never left Calista. "Young Calista here is indeed descended from your line, on her mother's side. Directly, even, I believe."

"Thought so," the portrait said; it had a rather haughty, nasally voice. "She has the look about her. Though, I must say, certainly not the  _breeding_. It's impolite to stare, young lady."

"Erm, sorry," Calista said, uncertainly.

"Hmph," the portrait said, and then: "You  _are_  in Slytherin, I see. Very good. Is that a Prefect badge?"

Calista blinked, and glanced back at the Headmaster, questioningly.

"The portraits behind me, Calista, depict the previous Headmasters of Hogwarts," he was kind enough to inform her, "And the one you're speaking with is Phineas Nigellus Black; if my recollection of things is correct, he'd be your great-great-great grandfather."

"You should answer posthaste, you know, when your betters ask you a question." the portrait sniffed; he sounded very unimpressed.

Calista raised a brow, and glared at the portrait. "I'll keep that in mind, when one of them asks me something," she said coolly. The portrait glowered, but — damn, she'd been so irritated with the portrait that she'd nearly forgotten where she was. She swept her glance back to the current headmaster who, unbelievably, looked like he was trying very hard to hide a smile.

"That will be all for now, Phineas," Professor Dumbledore said, very calmly; and then, when Calista looked back at the portrait, the frame was empty. Calista distinctly heard something about "impetuous youth" as he fled, and she was reminded powerfully of her her father.

"Where did he go?" she wondered.

"I do believe he's gone to his other portrait," the Headmaster said, and he took another sip of tea. "Is that not to your liking?" he asked, quite pleasantly. Calista followed his gaze, to the full cup of tea in front of her. It was no longer steaming.

"Oh. Erm, I don't really drink tea," she admitted. "Sir am I… am I in trouble for something?"

The Headmaster regarded her as coolly as always. "Do you think you ought to be?"

"No." She felt the corners of her mouth flicker into a frown, "But that doesn't mean I'm not."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled, as if she'd told a most delightful joke. Then he leaned forward, and with a conspiratorial sort of air:

"Your father never takes my tea, either. You're rather like him, I suspect."

Calista felt a swell of pride, despite the differences she'd had with her father lately. "Yes," she said, quickly and firmly, "I am."

"You are, I think, a very  _different_  sort of witch from your mother, however." the Headmaster said, in the same light, conversational tone he'd held all along.

Calista felt her breath catch in her throat; with significant effort, she kept her face as neutral as she could; what if it was a trap? Had he not believed, only two years ago, that she had been deserving of expulsion for her duel with Quirrell?

She found she could not  _quite_  control her body language; before she realised it, she was leaning forward, over the forgotten cup of tea.

"I want to be," she said, very quietly, and very forcefully. "I try to be."

The Headmaster stood up, tea in hand. He glanced up, and surveyed, briefly, the line of portraits behind them. Phineas Nigellus', and several of the other frames, were empty; in most of the others, their subjects snoozed unseeingly.

"It strikes me, though," the Headmaster continued; and here his tone was not  _quite_  so casual, though Calista suspected it took a very keen observer to realise it, "That you are not  _quite_  her polar opposite. You have great power; you are inventive with spells. You have a sharp mind."

Calista took a breath, and tried to reconcile the swell of pride at his recognition of her skills with the fact that he'd  _also_ equated them to her mother; it was difficult. She wondered if there was some trap to this, some trick.  _Did_  he suspect her of aiding Black, after all? Was he hoping to trick her into a confession that didn't exist in the first place?

He looked at her directly again now, and he asked the very last thing Calista expected him to, something that had absolutely nothing to do with Sirius Black:

"Why do you want the memory removed, Calista?"

She started; why would he  _ask_  unless he could do it? But her father had already told her it  _couldn't_ be done; the Headmaster had just told her the same.

"What does it matter?" she asked, "You've just told me it can't be done."

The Headmaster smiled; it struck her that he seemed to do so in the most inexplicable of situations. He set his teacup down, and turned his back to her, unlatching an empty, golden cage behind his desk.

"What do you imagine lives in this cage, Calista?"

She blinked. "A phoenix," she said, "I've seen it here, before. Last year."

"You are aware, I assume, of the healing properties of phoenix tears?"

"I — yes, of course. It was on the Defence O.W.L."

The Headmaster nodded, or she thought he did; she could only see the length of his white mane bobbing up and down, against the deep turquoise of his robes.

"Very good. And do you also, know, Calista, precisely what is required to bring a phoenix to shed those tears?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

He turned now, and regarded her. His expression was quite serene, and his voice, when it came, was soft.

"Tell me."

Calista felt her fingers slide, unbidden, into her pocket; not the right one, where she kept her wand, but the left one, where she could often find her little book. Her fingers brushed the familiar, comforting edge of parchment, and she took a breath.

"Death," she said, "For a phoenix to cry, it needs to witness imminent death."

"Very good," he said again; and then, he snapped the cage shut, so abruptly that Calista started involuntarily. She rubbed her fingers urgently along the edge of parchment in her pocket; only, when her fingers explored, searching for the remainder of the pages and the worn leather cover, she realised it was only a single sheet of parchment she was touching. Not her book, then; Gerald's letter. Gerald's runes.

"I've always found that to be the most fascinating thing about a phoenix," the Headmaster continued, conversationally; but she had not spent nearly eleven years searching her father's eyes to miss the glint of purpose. "After all — rebirth, renewal. Compared to the act of healing another - of saving a life outside of one's own… well, the former seems quite mundane and self-serving, doesn't it?"

Calista felt a warning tingle along her spine; it wasn't the words, so much. It was the look he was fixing her with — she realised, with a jolt, that he was trying to read her  _again_.

"I suppose I don't see," she managed, while skittering along her own barriers, examining them for any sign of a breach, "How the phoenix would manage to cry at all, if it didn't understand death; why would he cry, if he didn't know what it was he was saving someone from? I suppose that's why he'd need to be reborn."

The Headmaster's face spread, once more, into a smile.

"How, indeed?" he asked; and then:

"Have you ever seen a phoenix just before its moulting, Calista?"

She shook her head.

"He appears very sickly; defeated. Inches from death, even: after all, he is."

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but she didn't know what she was supposed to say, so she fingered the page in her pocket again, instead, and kept quiet. Eventually, the Headmaster spoke again.

"I don't think you are so very different from a phoenix. I think, in fact — perhaps, where it matters, that's exactly what you are."

Calista swallowed, hard; the mass of snakes in her gut pulsed. She thought a few of them tried to slither away.

"I don't know," she said, after a minute. "I suppose I always — thought of myself as having more in common with a thestral."

Now, the Headmaster was positively intrigued.

"Oh?" he said, and he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his crooked nose; the gesture was so reminiscent of Gerald that, for an instant, she let her guard down, and said what was on her mind.

"They understand death from the moment they're born," she said, "They're fierce and they're considered Dark, and… and no one sees it's not their fault; it's just the way they were made. People are… people are afraid of them, even though they've never really hurt anyone."

The Headmaster was nodding; she felt suddenly as if she was sitting an exam. She wondered if she was getting the answers right.

"And," she added, as she pressed the sharp edge of the page in her pocket into her fingertip, and cast a waspish, pointed glare at the golden cage in the corner, "They don't do well in cages."

She stood up, extracting herself from the chair, careful not to knock over the untouched cup of tea. "May I go now, Professor?"

"Certainly, Calista."

He strode to the door, and put his long fingers to the knob, opening it for her.

"Curious thing, isn't it?" he said, as he stood aside to let her leave; his tone was so offhand that she felt another prickle of warning line up along her spine. "Not many people realise that the phoenix and the thestral have always been allies."


	9. Chapter 9

"D'you think he still wants you back?" Amelia flipped a page in her Arithmancy book, "And what page is the vector formula on, again?"

"Of course not," Calista scowled, and glanced down at her own book. "Page 394, not like it matters, since you're just going to copy my answers when you think I'm not looking."

Amelia grinned, and glanced up, a bit coyly. "I dunno… I mean, who asks their  _ex-girlfriend_  for help breaking up with their current one?"

"I notice you're ignoring the second thing I said."

"I notice you're ignoring the  _last_ thing I said."

"I think he really just wanted advice… or, he wanted another chance to remind me how much he hates Gerald."

"See, it's 'cause he's still jealous. He still wants you."

"Doubtful. He made sure to let me know that Hecate is… well,  _you_ know. I told you what he said."

"She puts out." Amelia nodded. "Of course she does, she's a sl—"

"Shh! You can't say that word in the library."

Amelia snorted. "Never heard that rule before. What, afraid the books will hear me?"

"Or Madame Pince will. Anyway, it… who cares? I don't  _care_  what she does, or what Marcus does, or what  _anyone_  except Gerald and I do."

She realised how that sounded, and felt a blush rising to her cheeks. "I mean — not that we  _do_  anything… I mean, not that we… that I…"

Amelia was shaking with laughter, now. "You're so cute," she said, fondly, while Calista's scowl deepened, and then: "I kind of hope it  _is_  true, what Quidditch Boy claims Gerry said. It'd serve him right for being such an arse all the time. And it would certainly  _explain_ why Marcus was ten times worse to Gerry, after you guys broke up."

"It can't be true. I mean… the thing is, Gerald never said anything to  _me_  about… about liking me as anything more than a friend until… well, until Valentine's Day. Almost four months  _after_  I broke up with Marcus."

"Well, duh," Amelia said, "I mean, how could he say anything  _before_? Marcus probably would've beat Gerry to a pulp if he thought he might be trying to steal you away. If  _I_ were Gerry, I'd wait to say anything to you until I was damn sure you weren't planning on taking Quidditch Boy back. He's a Ravenclaw, remember? We're wise like that. Any anyway, how would you have felt if Gerry did say something when you were still dating Marcus?"

Calista shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know. I guess… I guess I would have felt weird about it."

"See? If he did fancy you back then, he did the only wise thing he could… kept his mouth shut and hoped you'd figure out on your own that Quidditch Boy was bad news. And considering how much shit Marcus has given Gerry over the years, can you really blame him for trying to get Marcus' goat like that?"

Calista considered. "I don't know," she said again, "It just… I still feel a little strange about it. I mean,  _if_ it's true." she glanced up at her friend. "Amelia, do you think it is? I mean… you shared a common room with him, did you ever think…?"

Amelia frowned, and craned her neck, looking over both of their textbooks to the parchment where Calista was working out her calculations. She started scrawling surreptitiously. "Maybe," she said, "It's hard to say… I mean, he  _was_  interested in knowing why you dumped Marcus, like I said, but beyond that… Gerry's kind of a hard read. Good at keeping things secret. That's why he was such a good Prefect, aside from maybe moralising a bit too much sometimes. Everyone trusted him. He wouldn't rat you out for breaking a rule here or there, as long as no one was hurt and you were trying to set things right."

 _He's good at keeping secrets because he's an Occlumens_ , Calista thought, but what she said instead was: "I can see you copying my work, you know."

"We both knew I was going to," Amelia pointed out reasonably, "Hey, have you started asking for recommendations yet? I've got one from Flitwick and I just talked to that new guy, Lupin, and he said he'd write me one, too."

"My dad's writing me one. I was going to ask Professor Flitwick too, and Professor Babbling, probably. Maybe Professor Vector..."

Amelia snorted. "You're brave, then. I heard no one's asking Vector. 'Fraid she'll just shoot flames out of her eyes at me if  _I_  ask."

"Yeah, well… I got an 'O' on my Arithmancy O.W.L. It'd be weird if I  _didn't_  ask her, wouldn't it?"

"Shit, you got an 'O'? Amelia raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "I barely got an 'E'. I don't think even  _Percy_  got an 'O'." She grinned. "Guess I've been copying the right person's homework."

"You know, if you actually did it all yourself, maybe you'd get better marks."

"Yeah, yeah." Amelia waved one hand dismissively, while she continued to copy Calista's formulas with the other.

"I hadn't thought of Professor Lupin," Calista said, after a moment. "I mean, we've only had him for a few months."

There was, of course, the additional complication that she may have made an enemy of him already, but Amelia didn't know that.

Amelia shrugged. "So what? He still said he was happy to write me one. I'm sure he'd do it for you, too." Then, she grinned mischievously. "I mean, unless you're planning on hexing him too, like you did Quirrell?"

"Amelia, that's not funny!"

"Oh, come on. It was ages ago, and no one cared anymore once it came out that he was a creep. You need to lighten up."

"And you," Calista scowled, and pulled her parchment closer to herself, "Need to learn to  _actually_  do your own calculations."

"Okay, Percy."

"You're infuriating, sometimes."

"Yeah," Amelia's grin didn't waver. "But I'm your best friend, so you love me, anyway."

"Well, Olivia Avril  _does_  like to tell everyone I'm mad. Maybe she's right."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Before she had a chance to ask Professor Flitwick to write her a recommendation letter, he'd asked her to come to his office, directly following one of her Independent Study sessions with him.

She'd followed, assuming he had another book he thought she would enjoy borrowing; or perhaps he had detailed feedback on one of her essays. It had happened, a few times, that he'd wanted to discuss one of them with her in more depth.

She supposed it could be the last one she'd turned in. She was working on a runic version of a Summoning Charm, and she'd accidentally managed a wandless Levitation Charm instead. Of course, like  _all_  of her runic spells, the effect lasted only a few seconds beyond her recitation and tracing of the runes… but then, even that few seconds was progress from when she'd started.

Professor Flitwick didn't go right to his desk, once he'd shown her into his office. Instead, he dragged his chair over to a file cabinet in the corner, and climbed up on it.

He pulled open a drawer near the middle. It was quite full of sheets and rolls of parchment.

"These, Miss Snape," Professor Flitwick told her, a bit loftily, "Are all of the extra-credit essays you've ever written for me. There are quite a few, eh?"

Calista wrinkled her nose, surprised. "That's — you've kept  _all_ of them?"

"Oh, yes. I used a Replication Charm on a few of your regular homework essays too, the ones I found  _particularly_  innovative or well-researched. There are a few of those in here, as well."

"I guess seven years of weekly essays adds up."

"Ah, indeed it does, my dear." He smiled, and closed the drawer, then climbed carefully down from the chair, and gestured to another, in front of his desk.

Calista took it, with a small, wry smile. Lately, it felt like she was doing nothing but sitting across from Professors.

Professor Flitwick remained standing. They were approximately at the same level, when he stood and she sat.

"I wonder if you'd mind telling me what your plans are, after graduation?" the Professor asked, leaning a hand on the seat of the chair he'd just climbed down from. "Have you decided which internships or apprenticeships you'll apply to?"

"Oh. Erm, not really. I've been keeping a list of things that sound interesting, but I… haven't made up my mind."

The Professor nodded. "I'm working on a recommendation letter for you, of course."

Calista blinked. "I haven't… I didn't think I'd remembered to ask you, yet. Thank you, of course."

Merlin, she was losing it… she had to find a way to get more than an hour or two of fitful sleep per night, if she was forgetting entire conversations now.

Professor Flitwick chuckled. "Well, I suppose you haven't, officially. But since it didn't seem likely that you'd write a drawer full of essays and then  _not_  request one, I decided I might as well get an early start."

"Oh." She exhaled, relieved; she'd been alarmed to think that she could have truly forgotten having asked. Still, it wouldn't have been terribly far from the other things she'd be forgetting, lately… to eat more than sporadically, for one; and last week, she'd had to go all the way back to her dormitory room from the Astronomy Tower to retrieve her telescope.

"I know you're interested in Potions as well as Charms," the professor said, "And I'm certain your father is encouraging you to pursue that… as he should, of course. Your successful brewing of the mandrake draught last year is evidence of that. But… I have another suggestion I hope you'll consider, since you haven't made your mind up yet."

Truthfully, working with potions didn't excite her nearly as much as a number of other internships she was considering, but it seemed somehow disloyal to her father to admit that to another professor, so she kept quiet.

Professor Flitwick shifted his posture again, leaning forward slightly.

"You're familiar with the Committee on Experimental Charms, of course," he said, "You've cited studies from them many times in your essays."

Calista nodded; she found herself leaning forward, too. "Of course," she said, "But they don't offer an internship; it was one of the first things I tried to find out about."

Professor Flitwick looked pleased. "No, my dear, they don't. The nature of their work is, of course, highly experimental and thus highly dangerous. The requirements for appointment to the Committee are very stringent: Outstanding marks in Charms at both the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. levels, of course; At least five other N.E.W.T.s, preferably including Defence Against the Dark Arts, since so many protective spells are Charms, and Arithmancy and Ancient Runes." he paused, to offer a small smile. "You are very likely to achieve N.E.W.T.s in those three subjects, I believe?"

"I certainly hope so. I scored 'Outstanding' on all of those O.W.L. exams."

"That's excellent to hear, though it doesn't surprise me in the least." the professor tilted his head slightly. "The Committee looks for other things, too; a substantive body of research. Having something published helps very much. Being skilled with healing spells is also helpful, as you can imagine. They also require a minimum of three years of professional experience in a research or experimental magic role."

"I don't have anything published, and I don't have three years of professional experience in  _any_ role yet, obviously." Calista said, "But I  _am_  very good with healing spells."

"Ah, well, you've touched upon one of the things I hope to convince you to consider," the professor said, "Calista, your body of research into runic charms is very compelling; more importantly, it's truly innovative. As it happens, I'm well acquainted with several Committee members, and I would like to work with you to revise and expand some of your essays into a proper research piece, and — if you're agreeable to it, of course — I'd like to pass it on to my contacts to consider for publication in the  _Experimental Charms_  research journal."

Calista's eyes went wide; her mouth opened slightly. "I —  _really_? You think it's good enough?"

"The material is all there; it just needs to be formatted properly. I can help you with that; I've had several of my own pieces published — ah, as you know, I believe."

There was a twinkle in his eye; Calista would have grinned, but she realised she already was. "Of course," she said, "I cited your research on the Fidelius Charm for my essay on protective runes."

"Yes, I recall. I take it you are interested, then, in pursuing publication of your work?"

"Yes," she said, immediately, " _Very_ interested. And… and I'm interested in anything else that you think might help me qualify for an eventual appointment to the Committee on Experimental Charms. They do some fascinating work, and I… honestly, Professor Flitwick, I can't think of anything I'd rather pursue than that."

If Professor Flitwick had looked pleased before, now he was absolutely delighted. "Ah, splendid, my dear! I am glad to hear it. I think, in a few year's time, your talents would be welcomed and well-used. You'll want to continue studying for the Advanced Magical Theory exam, certainly. And do I recall your father telling me that you've already received the Poisons and Antidotes certification?"

Calista nodded. "I have."

"That certainly won't hurt." He took a step closer, and lowered his voice slightly. "There is one other thing I think you should consider. This is — well, it's something of an unwritten qualification. There tends to be some measure of… ah,  _favouritism_ , when it comes to where the Committee recruits from. You know, of course, that in addition to conducting experiments itself, the Committee regulates and controls the use of  _all_  new Charms, and as such falls under the umbrella of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Calista nodded, again. "But — technically, doesn't every department except for the Department of Mysteries?"

Flitwick nodded. "That's true, but new appointees nearly always are tapped from the same few departments  _within_  the Magical Law Enforcement Offices. It's the Ministry, after all — there are always politics at play." He flared his nostrils slightly; a mild indication of disapproval. "Of course, such accusations are always denied, but nevertheless…"

He retreated, and went to his desk, where he tapped his wand to unlock a drawer. He withdrew a small scrap of parchment, and came around the desk again, handing it to her.

"These are the departments I would recommend seeking an internship with. The Wizengamot and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes are your best bets."

Calista scanned the list, and felt her heart flicker, and start to descend.

"I've already looked into a lot of these," she said, "And most of them — including the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes — require a Transfiguration N.E.W.T., which I'm… well, I'm not going to have. I'm not taking it anymore."

"That will make things more difficult," Flitwick conceded, "But not impossible; my advice is to apply for all of these anyway — or at least, all of them that are of interest to you."

"Even the ones I'm not qualified for?" she asked, doubtfully; still, she felt a flicker of hope returning.

"Exceptions can be made," the professor said, "And if there's one thing you've proven yourself to be, Miss Snape — it's exceptional."

Calista felt herself grinning again, for the second time since she'd entered his office; and probably, for only the second time in weeks.

"Thank you very much, Professor," she said, earnestly. "For the compliment, and the offer to help me publish my research, and… well, for everything."

"Not at all, my dear, not at all."

Calista left his office with the parchment in hand; she'd do it, she'd take his advice and apply to every single internship on the list, even the ones she  _wasn't_  particularly keen on. After all, what did it matter if she did something she wasn't terribly enthusiastic about for a couple of years, if it gave her the opportunity to do something she  _really_  wanted to afterwards?

She realised the knot in her gut was aching slightly less than it had been lately; and she realised, suddenly, why she had never really applied much enthusiasm into the internship application process. It had never felt real.

Leaving Professor Flitwick's office that November afternoon, Calista was able to imagine vividly, quite possibly for the first time, a future for herself — a life beyond simply surviving, beyond the horrors of her past, and beyond her studies. She felt the seed of ambition plant itself firmly in her mind, and wondered how, after her conversation with Daisy, it had still managed to escape her until now.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista thought she could probably walk the route from the Slytherin common room to the Owlery with her eyes closed, by now. She was still writing to Gerald as often as three times a week, though she found it difficult to fill her letters with sweet words and romantic overtures, as he often did; but then, even he'd been offering fewer of the latter, lately.

She wasn't the only one that was having a hard time sleeping. Despite his urging her not to worry about him, she asked after him, and what was happening with his father with every letter, because she knew that he liked to talk about things that were worrying him; he'd resisted at first, but then he'd started writing her pages full of his fears, and of the things his father wanted to know that Gerald didn't want to tell him.

Calista had to admit, it did all seem very strange; his father wanted detailed updates on the lives of all of the cousins, aunts, and uncles that Gerald was in touch with. What made it stranger was that Gerald said his father had never really talked to any of them; that  _he'd_  only properly met most of them since his father had gone to Azkaban.

He wanted to know about Gerald's mother too, though — curiously, and it was the one point of relief for Gerald — he didn't ask much after Terry. He was still asking if Gerald was in a relationship, and Gerald was still steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that he was.

 _I hope you know that I'm not ashamed of being with you_ , he'd written,  _I'm just so fearful that he might try to contact you, or try to hurt you in some way, to get at me. He never liked me to have anyone to confide in: I was forbidden from bringing friends to the house when I was small, and I was never allowed to use his owl. Saving up and buying my own when he went to Azkaban was the first time I ever felt any sort of freedom, never mind that I had no one to write to._

She wanted to ask if it was all right for her to solicit advice from her father, but it didn't seem like the sort of thing one should ask though the post.

He wasn't applying for an internship this year, either; Calista tried to ignore the disappointment she'd felt when he'd told her that, tried to understand when he insisted that his mother still needed help with the bills, and that he didn't have the time to dedicate, stuck as he was responding to his father's whims.

She hadn't asked him for anything of his to keep under her pillow — he was right, she  _did_ think the idea of it was a little bit corny — but she did keep the letter with the runes along the bottom of it in her pocket, and she  _had_  managed to find scattered moments of happiness, while she was carrying it; Talking with Amelia, and her conversation with Professor Flitwick about her her research and the Committee. She'd even worked up the nerve to ask Professor Vector for a recommendation letter, fingering the edge of the letter in her pocket all the while — and the one she'd received had actually been glowing, as had the one from Professor Babbling.

She'd written him with the list of internships she was planning on applying to — all of the ones on Professor Flitwick's list, and — partially as a safety net, and partially to appease her father — the potions brewer internship at St. Mungo's.

She allowed a small smile, when she recalled his reaction to her writing him about her conversation with Professor Flitwick. It had come the same day she'd written  _him_ , and it had been the shortest letter he'd sent her in quite some time:

 _Calista, that's amazing, and you're amazing! Your research_ is _compelling, and I can't wait until I can read it in the_ Experimental Charms  _journal. I'll buy a hundred copies, besides my subscription; I can't wait until it's official; I can't wait to celebrate it with you, and I can't wait until the day that I can say my girlfriend is published, in addition to everything else I already tell my family you are: intelligent, kind, caring, beautiful, clever, funny, wise, and a phenomenal kisser. (I'm joking, by the way,_ mon colibri;  _I keep that last one to myself)._

_Four weeks. Yours,_

_Gerald_

It had come so quick, and his handwriting wasn't as neat as it usually was, and it had come back by her own owl: she could only assume that he'd written his reply as soon as he'd received it, and sent it back with Lucerne straightaway. It made her wonder how long he usually spent writing his other letters; she'd always secretly liked to imagine that he spent a lot of time, as she did, considering the words to write and the way to write them. She wondered if he paused often while writing just to think about her, as she often did to think about him; to imagine him opening her letter, and reading her words.

There were moments like that, scattered throughout the dark, endless nights and the heavy knot in her gut. Smiles, even rare grins, and a few times with Amelia, genuine laughs. Letters from Gerald, and even from her Aunt Narcissa, that managed to ease the feeling of hopelessness that otherwise still pressed at her from what often felt like all sides.

It was these moments that gave her the courage, after she'd tied her latest letter to Gerald onto Lucerne's leg, to attempt once more what she'd felt too heavy, and too weak, to try for several weeks.

The sun was shining brilliantly into the Owlery, at an angle that managed to light all of the shadowy corners in a rare sight.

Calista drew her wand from her pocket, and sifted through her memories; all the ones she'd used before, to try and conjure her Patronus, and a few new ones, besides: laughing with Amelia, suppressing a blush as she read one of Gerald's cornier — and sweeter — letters, and Professor Flitwick's praise and offer to help her publish her research. She lingered on each memory, one at a time, absorbing the happiness of each one.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," she whispered; she was answered with a small, weak flicker of light that was almost invisible in the relative brightness of the Owlery.

She reached for the last thing, the best thing: the thing that had provided all of the happiness she'd needed, last year, to summon her Charmed guardian. She could still feel the truth of her father's depth of feeling for her, the protection and the love that he offered her, even when she didn't always know how to accept them.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she said again, louder; she could feel the surge of warmth through her veins, the tingle of power along her skin; the tip of her wand was lit with silver.

And then…

A flash of darkness; a terrible tide of horror. Red lines, streaks of blood on white skin. A terrible, familiar pattern in triplicate — one on her mother's arm, one on her father's, and one, cruder, on the skin of her own back. A terrible whisper, in her ear, the memory of a dream that haunted her night after night:

 _Imperio_.

The spell fizzled out, and the sun slipped lower in the sky, beyond the edge of the room's single window. The Owlery was once more cloaked in shadow; and so was Calista.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista took a deep breath, and let it out slowly; she could hear it shuddering on the way out. She rearranged her features, emptied the forefront of her mind of everything but what she'd come here to ask for. She couldn't help her nerves, but she  _could_  help him seeing them.

She lifted her hand, and tapped on the door. There was nothing for a few seconds, and she thought perhaps she hadn't been loud enough; then, from beyond, soft footfalls, muffled by the heavy oak of the door, and suddenly it swung open.

"Calista." She might be keeping her own face neutral, but his wasn't; surprise was evident on the tired face, in the sharp, keen brown eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I… uhm, Professor Lupin, can I ask you something?"

He could have shut the door in her face, professor or no; she hadn't spoken a word to him, outside of what was required in class, since she'd challenged him for the third-year boggart lesson. She knew, too, that even her required responses had been frosty at best, and downright dismissive at worst.

Instead of shutting her out, Professor Lupin stepped slightly to the side; it was a gesture that allowed her to enter, if she wished, but also didn't demand that she did.

She stepped inside; he pushed the door behind her, but it didn't swing all the way shut. It was almost as if he didn't have quite the strength he expected to.

"I have to ask… I mean, you probably won't want to, and I suppose I understand, but… there are some internships I'm applying to that require a Defence N.E.W.T., and I thought since you're the Defence professor, I ought to at least ask if you… if you'd be willing to write me a letter of recommendation."

His surprise increased tenfold; the brown eyes widened.

"It's all right if you don't want to," she said, uncharacteristically contrite — even though it wasn't, not really; she really ought to have a recommendation from someone who had taught her, and she didn't think the Ministry would take kindly to her father writing her  _two_  letters.

To  _her_  surprise, Lupin's face spread into a broad, albeit tired, smile. "Calista, I'd be delighted to. I'm honoured that you've asked me."

She blinked. "You… you are? Even though I've been…"

 _Kind of a snarly bitch_ , she thought, as Amelia frequently described her in her dark moods, but she settled for "Erm, quiet in class lately?"

"It's not difficult to understand why you'd be reluctant to speak to me after the last conversation we had in this office," the professor said. He walked around his desk, and dropped into his chair; she stayed standing, and he didn't motion her to the empty seat, though his eyes did look up to meet hers directly from where he sat.

"I think I owe you an explanation, for the boggart lesson we discussed, though I of course will understand if you don't wish to hear it."

"Yes," she said, surprising herself. "I  _do_  want to hear it."

He nodded, and now he did wave towards the empty seat across from his desk, but Calista shook her head slightly, and remained standing. Even though she was here to ask him for a recommendation — and even though she did want to hear what he had to say — she wasn't quite ready to allow this conversation to become what the last one had been, at first. She wasn't ready to be friendly.

"You asked me why I would invite a classroom containing many survivors of trauma — survivors of war — to reveal their deepest fears in front of each other."

Calista felt herself taking a step closer; he had gotten straight to the point, and though it didn't make her trust him, it gave her some grudging respect for him. She nodded.

"Perhaps it was misguided; perhaps it was not. But I want you to understand that my motive wasn't to have anyone feel helpless; quite the opposite, in fact."

He leaned his elbows on the surface of the desk, and crossed his arms, leaning forward; it struck Calista not as a gesture of moving closer, but as a physical support; she noticed the pallor of his skin, and the heavy, dark circles under his eyes, and she wondered if he was falling ill again; she wondered what illness it  _was_  that had kept him out of class for a full week.

"I wanted to give them a chance to  _conquer_  their fears," he said quietly, "To prove to themselves — and, I suppose, their classmates — that they could triumph over them. I wanted them to know that every one of us is capable of finding light even the deepest shadow; even in the face of that which we fear the most."

Calista drew in a breath, rather sharper than she meant to.

"But there are some things," she said, and suddenly the image of the dreaded little glass vial, filled with silvery-blue light had made its way to the forefront of her mind. "Some fears — that can't be driven away by laughter, or by anything else."

There was something else, another memory, pushing its way through the barrier she'd erected around it; she let it work itself into the front of her mind. Professor Lupin was quiet, as if he knew, somehow, that she was searching for something else to augment her response with.

She saw, in her mind, the flash of cold grey eyes, the silver of sharp steel; and then she saw the blood, and she felt the incessant pull of that memory; it was so much heavier, every time, than she remembered. She struggled not to let it pull her all the way back down with it.

"There are things," she said, "That only get worse when you face them."

She had said the last bit very quietly, and Professor Lupin didn't respond for a stretch of time that was long enough to make her think he hadn't heard her; just as she had decided it was just as well that she'd already said too much, he spoke again.

"I wish I could impress upon you how well and truly I understand that sentiment," he said, and his tone was so heavy and solemn that it drove her, inexplicably, to lower herself into the chair across from him. "And there is something I will tell you that I imagine will be difficult to hear, but I hope you'll consider my words."

She found herself leaning forward slightly, and it had nothing to do with physical support; something in his sudden, uncharacteristic gravity made her want to listen.

"The reason the  _Riddikulus_  spell works has almost nothing to do with the incantation. The true magic of the spell doesn't come from any word or any wand at all. It comes from finding a way, within your very soul, to accept the thing you fear as part of yourself, and to find the light within it. For those with tangible fears like trolls or giant spiders, it's easy: make it humorous. For others, though…"

"What?" Calista asked; the knot in her gut was pulsing, and twisting. "What does it take, for  _others_?"

"I think, in the direst of cases, it takes the ability to turn tragedy and horror into purpose. It is not an easy thing, Calista, and in fact, your essay on the Patronus Charm has influenced my opinion on this. I think you might approach a boggart the same way you approached the conjuration of a Patronus: by finding the thing that gives you strength."

Calista felt her heart drop into her stomach through the course of his speech; she thought she could feel it being devoured by the writhing mass of fear-snakes that had been living there since the end of July.

"Then it's hopeless," she said; she could both hear and taste the bitterness in her words, as she tore her eyes away from the professor. "I'll never manage."

"I imagine it will be very difficult; but so was the initial conjuration of your Patronus, wasn't it?"

" _Yes,_ " Calista heard herself hiss, "It was difficult, and it was pointless. It's gone."

She'd imagined, so many times, that allowing those words to leave her throat would bubble and burn; would be something like getting violently sick. In fact, they had slipped out easily, but that didn't make her feel any less like doubling over with nausea.

"What do you mean, Calista?" he asked; and because she wasn't looking at him, she didn't see him as Professor Lupin. She  _heard_  him as Remus, as the first person that she could recall ever having shown her true kindness, as the person who had spent countless afternoons reading in a soft voice to a child who had been too terrified to stay in a room with anyone else.

"I mean," she said, fighting the urge to be physically ill, "It's gone. My Patronus. I… something happened, and now I can't work the Charm." She glanced up. " _That's_  why I blacked out, on the train. That was the first time it failed."

She saw his eyes light with understanding; she imagined he was piecing it all together now; why she'd been reluctant to demonstrate her Patronus in class, or even contribute to the class discussion.

"Conjuring a Patronus in the presence of dementors is much more difficult than it is under other circumstances," he said, in what she supposed was meant to be a gentle tone, "Especially for those who have a… well, who have many more horrors than most for the dementors to work with."

" _I know that_ ," she snapped, "And what I'm saying is that  _I can't work the charm at all._ "

She sat up straighter; she could feel her legs itching to bolt; and then, she met Remus' gaze again, and she was reminded suddenly that not every single image she'd seen in the Pensieve over the summer had been horrific. She remembered seeing him reaching out; she remembered him trying to help her… but she had never been very good at accepting help; her father had learned that lesson over and over again.

"I …  _remembered_  something over the summer," she told him quietly. "Something — no, the  _worst_  thing that she — that ever happened to me. And… I'm not the same anymore."

Some of the nausea was beginning to fall away in waves, even though the dread still sat heavy in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was the way that his gaze remained mild, and steady; or perhaps it was simply that she was glad to finally have the taste of the words out of her mouth.

"I can't sleep," she continued, "I can't get rid of this horrible, heavy feeling in my stomach. I can't stop  _seeing_  what she — what happened. And I can't produce a Patronus."

Remus was quiet, but she was beginning to realise that didn't mean he hadn't heard. After a minute, he started speaking, words clear and concise despite the soft tone they were delivered in.

" _In cases where the caster has endured a life-altering traumatic event,_ " he said, " _The Patronus may fail to manifest, for a period of days to years. If there is no happy memory sufficient to counter the pain of the trauma, the traditional method of casting will fail; even Sparkman's modified methodology may fail, until such time as the caster is able to turn their suffering into strength. It requires a deep understanding, not only of the Charm, but of the caster's own mind, and the precise reasons for the Patronus' failure to manifest._ Have I got the gist of it?"

"That's — that's from my essay. But I can't… it's not that simple..."

"I never meant to imply that it was; but my feeling is, if you've managed it once, you'll manage it again. You just might need to find another way; another source of strength, perhaps."

"Maybe." He sounded so earnest that she didn't have the heart to admit she couldn't believe in her ability to relearn the Charm the way he seemed to; just as she couldn't believe in her ability to overcome the darkness of her memory, the way her father seemed to.

"Professor Lupin," she added, partly to change the subject, and partly because she realised she still hadn't followed through on a certain promise she'd made, "Do you think you could… I mean, would you... "

She swallowed. "There's another Hogsmeade weekend coming up in a few weeks," she said, "And I'm supposed to meet — my friend, who graduated last year. Only… because of the dementors, I promised I wouldn't go without someone who can produce a proper Patronus. Do you think… could you walk with me, through the gate?"

"When is it?"

"Three weeks. December eighteenth."

He glanced away, perhaps considering. Then:

"I will; but there's something I'd like to ask of you in return."

She couldn't imagine what he could possibly ask her for; she was immediately wary.

"What is it?"

"Don't give up on your Patronus."

"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you how many times I've tried. It's  _hopeless._ "

"Or maybe it's only the  _approach_  that's hopeless." He offered a small, thin smile now; she could see in his face that he was bone-tired. She wondered, suddenly, if he, too, was sometimes jarred to wake up in a dark room and realise he was still alive.

"Perhaps you can treat your own predicament as… well, as something of a case study, like those you cited from the Sparkman book in your essay. Take notes; pursue research. In fact — I think I  _would_ like to assign this to you as an essay, though you needn't hand it in to me, if you don't want to. An extra-credit essay. I believe Filius mentioned you may have written, ah, one or two of those before, for him?"

Unbelievably, in the face of everything, Calista managed a small, weak chuckle.

"Yes," she said, "One or two." And then:

"All right," she said, surprising herself for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd let her feet lead her to his door that afternoon, "I'll write the essay, provided you meant what you said about not needing to hand it in."

"I'll take you at your word that you're working on it."

She nodded, rising from her chair. Unbelievably, she felt something new — the tiniest spark of hope. She tried not to feel it too acutely, knowing she was still likely to be disappointed, in the end.

"Thank you, R— Professor Lupin."

"You're quite welcome. I'll start writing your letter tomorrow."

By the door, she remembered one more thing. She ducked back inside his office.

"Oh. Uhm… Professor? I haven't told my father about my Patronus. I'm afraid he might not let me leave the castle at all, if he knew, and it's… it's very important to me that I'm able to see my friend."

Lupin frowned. "Your father seems to concern himself very closely with your safety and well-being," he said, "I don't know if I think it's particularly wise to keep this secret from him."

"Please?" Calista said, "It's not  _just_  about not being able to leave the castle. He already… he already worries about me too much. I don't want to make it worse."

He wasn't convinced; she could see hesitation and discomfort in his face.

"At least give me time," she said, "Let me try a little longer to get my Patronus back, before I have to tell him."

Mercifully, this seemed to sway him, at least temporarily. He nodded. "A little longer," he conceded, reluctantly. "And then, I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you let him know."

She nodded, and tried not to think precisely what she did, on her way out.

_I can tell you I told him; if it was a lie, you wouldn't be able to tell._

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

In the beginning of December, Professor McGonagall came around to collect the names of who would be staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. Calista realised she hadn't asked her father whether they were staying, or whether they'd be going home; but then, her Aunt Narcissa had written something in her last letter indicating that she was looking forward to seeing Calista at the holiday, so she took a gamble and told Professor McGonagall she would not be staying on at the castle.

There was a very good reason why Calista hoped she was right, that they  _were_  going home for Christmas. She could arrange to meet Gerald, if she was away from the castle; since her father had let him come over for the Easter break and she'd seen him at least twice a week during the summer, she couldn't imagine he'd say no. Besides, she'd convinced her father to bring her to Knockturn Alley last weekend, to the bookstore where they'd found the  _Complete Compendium of Runes_   _Through the Ages_ , and when she'd picked out a book to give Gerald for Christmas, he hadn't given any indication that she wouldn't be able to give it to him in person.

There was one other thing, besides the book, that she was working on giving Gerald for Christmas; a thing that had her huddled over Severus' kitchen table one evening, with coloured pencils and parchment spread out before her. It was, by her standards, a fairly corny thing — so she was betting Gerald would love it.

Severus strode into the kitchen without warning while she was working; even though there was nothing inappropriate about what she was working on, she started, and scrambled to cover her work up with a blank sheet of parchment. She looked up to a quirked brow, but mercifully, he didn't ask any questions.

"Set that aside for now," he said, waving his wand as she did so, and revealing several dishes of food that he'd had sent up from the kitchens.

It was Calista's turn to raise a brow. "Hungry?" she asked, a bit teasingly. There was far more food on the table than the two of them would normally eat for dinner.

Instead of answering her, he took two plates down from a cupboard over the worktop, and filled them both with food from the larger dishes on the table; she noticed that he filled one plate significantly more than the other, and it was this overfilled plate that he set down in front of her.

She opened her mouth, prepared to protest, and Severus cut her off.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not, you're going to eat. You're skin and bones again; and I've been watching you, in the Great Hall. Half the time, you don't eat more than a few bites at dinner. I expect you're not remembering to take breakfast or lunch at all most days."

"That's not true," she said, even though, when she thought about it, it most certainly was.

"Then it appears you've suddenly acquired a tapeworm; we should go to St. Mungo's immediately to have it removed."

She scowled. "You're not nearly as funny as you think you are."

"And you," he countered, "Are not nearly as discreet as you think you are, about your utter lack of care for yourself. Do I need to insist on you taking all of your meals with me, again?"

"No." She picked up her fork, spearing a cluster of sprouts to prove her point.

They had a few uncomfortable minutes, where Severus refused to discuss anything else, and kept stealing suspicious glances at her, that didn't end until she'd cleared roughly half the food he'd piled on her plate.

By that time, she was full; she set the fork down, and though her father's mouth pulled down into a slight frown, he didn't reprimand her again.

"I've just gotten off the fire with your aunt," he told her, once he'd eaten some of his own dinner, "It's all settled; you're accompanying Draco home on the train, and you're going to spend the Christmas break at their home."

Calista blinked, "Why am I taking the train? Can't we just Apparate?"

"You're taking the train to accompany your cousin, as I said. Narcissa asked that you would, and I told her you'd oblige. I… I will be staying here, for the break."

"What?" Calista locked her eyes on him. "What do you mean,  _I'm_  going there, and  _you're_  staying here?"

"It's nothing out of the ordinary, Calista," he said, smoothly, "You've spent the week there on your own during the summer more than once."

"But," she said, "We've never been apart for Christmas. Not since I… not since I came to live with you."

He quirked a brow once more. "We didn't even really celebrate the holiday until you were eleven, aside from joining the other professors at the feast one year. I'll still give you all of your new books, if that's what you're concerned about."

Her scowl returned. "You know it's not." Then, because she knew her father, she added: "I do still want them, though."

"I'll try to come out, for a time, during the day on Christmas Day," he told her, softening slightly. "Though I expect I won't be able to stay long. I have… something I need to attend to, here at the castle. Something I need to keep my eye on."

"What is it?"

"I have been forbidden from telling you."

She blinked; it was such an unexpected answer. She searched his face, trying to determine if he was serious or if he was having her on.

"Is it… is it something dangerous?" she ventured.

"Yes," Severus said, baldly; he wasn't joking, then. "Which is why I'd prefer to have you away from the castle."

"Does it…" she frowned, "Does it have to do with Sirius Black?"

His expression darkened, though she was experienced enough at interpreting his subtleties to know it wasn't at her. "It very well may," was all he would say; and when she persisted in her line of questioning, he changed the subject quite swiftly and quite obviously:

"I will inform Lucius and Narcissa that you have my permission to accept any invitations you receive to call upon your friends, of course, provided you are doing so at a reasonable hour, somewhere safe and somewhere that adults will be present."

It was an appeasement, if ever he'd offered one; still, she'd take it.

" _Any_  of my friends?" she asked, "Including Gerald?"

"Yes, you may see Mr. Boot. Ah, and that reminds me: by  _adults_ , I mean parents, or adult relatives. I  _don't_  mean older friends of yours."

"I assumed as much."

"Your older cousin doesn't count as an adult, either," he warned, "I haven't forgotten the bottle of firewhiskey she tried to owl you for your birthday."

Calista wrinkled her nose. "She tried to owl me firewhiskey?"

"Yes; only I hadn't given you your own owl yet, so she sent it to the castle with  _mine_. I confiscated it, naturally."

Calista felt the corners of her mouth quirk; it certainly  _sounded_ like something Tonks would do. It also explained why the birthday card she'd received had inexplicably said, 'Have fun with this, but don't do anything I wouldn't do'.

"Weren't you tempted to let it get to me and see what I'd do with it?"

"Oh, yes; about as tempted as I was, ten years ago, to let you jump in the lake and see how you would fare with the Giant Squid."

She managed a small smirk. "You know, it's funny you should mention that, because I think I'd do the same thing with the firewhiskey as I did with the Giant Squid — terrify you with pretend threats, and then completely avoid it."

"That does sound like something the devil-child I've raised would say," Severus reflected; and then, she felt her mouth twist into a frown. It was that she would miss him, over Christmas, really, but then her father said, hastily. "I don't mean that seriously, of course," and the fact that he evidently felt he had to  _specify_ that he was not serious in teasing her in that way, when he never had before, caused the mass in her gut to twist, as well.

"Calista…" he started, awkwardly; she suddenly didn't want to hear whatever he was going to say.

"What if I have a nightmare while I'm at Aunt Narcissa's?" she asked, quickly; as a subject-changer it was poor, but it was also a legitimate concern.

He frowned. "You're not still having them frequently, are you?"

She hedged; she realised the conversation could easily go in a direction where it would be natural for her to reveal the truth about her Patronus, and she was not willing to do that when he'd just given her very easily revoked permission to see her friends — and Gerald — over the break.

"Not the same ones," she said, "These are more like…"

 _Like I'm not being chased by her; I'm_ becoming  _her._

"Like a string of things I'm worried about," she said, because in its way, it  _was_  true; then she felt guilty for how thinly that was so, and she clarified: "Things about  _her_ , I guess. About… about her coming back. Getting out. But it's not really like the legilimency dreams."

"Calista, if you want to talk about this —"

"I don't," she said quickly, "I just want to know what I'm supposed to do, if I wake up having one of them and — and act like a bloody lunatic again, and you're not there to defuse the situation."

"You can owl me," he said, "Or call me on the fire — anytime, for both of those things." He considered her, and then, hesitantly: "I can… I can also give you a few doses of a sleeping draught to take with you, if that would reassure you. It would make you less likely to wake during the night."

_Less likely to wake… What if that means I'll finally see the end of the dream, at last? What if it means I'll finally have to watch what it is she wants me to do?_

"No, that's all right," she said, with as unconcerned of an air as she could muster, "I'll — I'm sure I'll manage."

He frowned again, concern evident in his eyes. "Calista…"

"I'll be fine," she reassured him, firmly. "I… I just remembered, I have a letter to post. I'm going to go up to the Owlery, then I suppose I'll go back to the common room."

He didn't stop her, when she rose and gathered her things, though she could feel his eyes on her the whole time; when she had everything, he didn't say anything else, except to bid her good night. She tried to pretend she hadn't seen the sadness, and the fear, pulling the corners of his mouth down, and she directed herself along the familiar path towards the Owlery.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Despite herself, she managed a small, amused smile when she arrived at the Owlery, still with all of her sheets of parchment and her books in hand.

"Hey, Terry," she quipped, "Fancy meeting you here."

He started; but when he turned, his grin was as playful and as ready as always.

"Hey, Calista," he said, and then he took in the stack of papers and books she was carrying. "You know, you and Gerry really ought to start writing shorter letters."

She smirked. "Very funny."

"I thought so."

She set the books and papers down on a nearby ledge, careful to keep a blank sheet of parchment at the bottom and the top, to protect the rest of the stack from owl droppings, and doubly careful to hide Gerald's unfinished Christmas present in between the pages of one of her books. She reached into her pocket, and removed the letter that she had written for him earlier.

"Hey, erm…" Terry said, after she had called Lucerne down from her perch and was tying the letter to her owl's leg, "D'you think I could… er, could I maybe borrow your owl, or send my letter along with yours?"

She looked up at him; she didn't bother to hide the surprise on her face.

"You  _are_ sending that to my brother again, right?"

"Yes; but don't you have your own owl?" She could see it, waiting patiently on a rafter a ways above him, and preening itself.

"Mine is — it's out already," he said, quickly. "Delivering another letter. And I really wanted to send this to Gerry today. It's a list of stuff I want him to bring me from my room, when he comes to Hogsmeade next week to snog you."

She looked up again at the snowy owl, while Terry's gaze remained steadfastly on her. She'd seen him in here, sending letters out with that owl nearly a dozen times now, and she'd  _swear_  it was the same one…

But what did it matter, really? She could easily be mistaken; there was more than one snowy owl in the Owlery, and anyway, it wasn't as if sending his letter along with hers was any sort of inconvenience.

"Sure," she said, shrugging. "Go ahead and tie it on Lucerne's other leg, if you want."

"Thanks." He busied himself doing just that; and then, before she could decide against it, she asked the question that had just occurred to her once more; the question that had occurred to her nearly every time she'd seen Terry, lately.

"Terry… that thing you said before, about… about Gerald,  _erm_ , fancying me already when I went to his birthday party, the one at your house… was that true?"

"Yep," Terry said, quite offhand, while his fingers worked on securing his letter to her owl.

"You're… you're certain?"

He finished tying the letter, and looked up at her, now. "Hummingbird," he said, "That's the rune — that's what he calls you, right?"

With effort, she suppressed a blush. "Yes."

"Well," Terry said, "He's been drawing that on random sheets of parchment and stuff for ages. Since… I dunno, it was before I started at Hogwarts. Since his third or fourth year, I think. Maybe earlier."

Calista felt a strange, hollow feeling flutter to life in her stomach, even though she'd just eaten; it wasn't the panic-snakes, or the heavy knot, but it still wasn't precisely pleasant.

"So, if you're the hummingbird girl," Terry finished, holding his arm up; Lucerne hopped up onto it, evidently familiar enough with him — or with the destination — to have no problem answering to another master, "Then I reckon he's fancied you since then."

"Wait," Calista said, as Terry approached the window, and her owl flew off of his arm and out into the night, "I shouldn't —"

 _I shouldn't send that letter_ , was her panicked thought; but it wasn't any different from any of the others she'd been sending, really, so why was she having that particular thought, now?

"Oops," Terry said, glancing back at her; he appeared entirely unconcerned by what he'd just told her, as if he'd just confirmed that Gerald had always worn glasses, or that he'd always had brown hair. "Sorry, did you forget something you wanted to send?"

"Huh? Oh —" she followed his gaze, to the stack of books, and the half-finished project she'd buried within the pages. "No, I just… erm, I mean, I should've probably fed Lucerne first, is all."

"She'll hunt, won't she?" Terry asked, furrowing his brow in mild puzzlement; he looked even more like his brother than usual, in that moment.

"I suppose she will. I… I ought to be going, now. Homework."

"All right. 'Night, Calista."

"Good night, Terry."

Calista barely remembered the walk back to the Slytherin common room. When she got there, she hurriedly stacked her books and parchment at the bottom of her wardrobe, where she forgot about them — or convinced herself that she'd forgotten about them — for the next several days.


	10. Chapter 10

At breakfast on the morning of the Christmas Hogsmeade weekend, Calista could feel her father’s eyes on her from the staff table; she glanced up and sent a scowl in his general direction; then she made a show of taking a huge forkful of eggs and shoving them into her mouth.  _ See? I’m eating _ .

He had the grace to look away, after that, but she could have sworn he was  _ smirking _ .

“Have you looked outside?” Amelia asked, from her right, “It’s nothing but snow blowing all around — I think I might just go back to bed after this. Wake up at lunchtime.”

“Yeeernagub—” Calista nearly choked on the huge mouthful of scrambled eggs. She flushed, and swallowed. “You’re not going to go to Hogsmeade?”

“Ugh, go outside in this mess? No way. I don’t think Penny or Percy are going to go, either.”

“What are you all going to do?”

“ _ I’m _ seriously considering going back to bed,” Amelia said, “I’m sure Percelope is going to go off somewhere and snog since the castle will be practically empty.”

Calista snorted. “Percelope?”

Amelia grinned. “Yeah; just thought of that one the other day. Brilliant, right?”

“Do either of them know about it?”

“Not yet.” Her grin widened. “That’s what I can do today — annoy them. Want in?”

“As tempting as that sounds, no. I’m still going to Hogsmeade. Gerald’s coming again.”

“Oh, right. So then you’ve stopped being weird about what Quidditch Boy said?”

Calista shrugged; she felt the pull of discomfort in her stomach again. “I don’t know. It’s not just that… it’s what his brother said, too...”

“Seriously,” Amelia said, firmly, spearing a sausage. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to let it go. You and Gerry are perfect for each other. So what if he figured it out before you did?”

“You thought Marcus and I were good together once, too,” she pointed out.

Amelia dropped her fork with a loud clatter onto her plate, and looked alarmed. “You’re  _ not _ thinking of getting back with Quidditch Boy—”

“Shh! No, of course not! I told him not to even  _ talk _ to me again. It’s not — it’s  _ nothing _ like that. I’m just saying, you don’t really know that Gerald and I are so ‘perfect’ together…”

“Yes, I do,” Amelia said, firmly, “Because you’re both  _ happy _ . You and Quidditch Boy were always fighting, or he was making you feel bad about one thing or another. Seriously, it’s one thing if you didn’t like Gerry anymore, or if he  _ actually _ did something wrong, but if you break up with him over something as stupid as  _ this _ , I’m going to hex you —”

“Oh, shut it,” Calista snarled, “I’m not — I’m not going to  _ break up with him _ , okay?”

“Good. You’d better not.”

“I just… I just think it’s kind of … I don’t know. I still feel weird.”

“Well, maybe that’s not his problem,” Amelia snarked, picking her fork back up, “Maybe it’s yours.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista knocked on Professor Lupin’s office door, even though it was ajar; she could see him standing in front of his desk, wrapping a frayed and faded scarf around his neck.

“Ah, Calista,” he said, pleasantly; he was looking much healthier this time than he had the last time she’d been in his office. “You’re ready to go, I take it?”

She nodded, loosening her own scarf slightly; she knew it was going to be cold outside, but inside the castle it was quite warm.

He reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair of faded gloves, wriggling his fingers into them, and she realised that she had forgotten hers. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to go all the way back to her dormitory room to get them now; she’d just have to pull the sleeves of her jumper down to cover her hands, once they got outside.

“So,” Professor Lupin said, as they went out into the corridor. He pulled his office door shut behind them. “May I ask how your essay is coming along?”

She glanced up at him; his expression was as mild as ever. “I’m working on it,” she said, “I’ve made some… some notes. Trying to… trying to sort things out, I guess.”

“It will take time,” he said, “But I’m glad you’re working on it.”

“Yeah.”

They walked in silence until they reached the entrance hall. Filch was standing at the door again, looking sour with his cat in one arm and his clipboard in the other. Most of the students must have already left, or weren’t going at all, because the Entrance Hall was deserted, except for him and except for them.

“Hello, Argus,” Professor Lupin said pleasantly, as they approached the door. Filch grunted.

“Go on, Professor,” he said, and then: “Not  _ you _ , girly. Where do you think  _ you’re _ going? I need to check the list, make sure you’re not trying to sneak out.”

Calista rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Must we do this every time? You  _ know _ I’m on the list, you’re just cross because my father won’t let you put me in irons, or whatever.”

Filch snarled at her; she glanced at Professor Lupin and saw him shaking with what was most definitely suppressed laughter.

“ _ Snape _ ,” he sneered, checking her name off. “Go on then, you miserable little brat.”

“You know, my father calls me that, too,” she remarked, as Lupin pushed the door open, and they went through.

It was bitingly cold outside; Calista immediately drew her winter cloak closer around herself, and just as immediately regretted not going back for her gloves. The wind was fierce, and seemed to work its way through even the tiniest gap between her clothing.

They didn’t talk, until a minute after they’d gone through the gate.

“Ah,” she heard Professor Lupin say, pulling his scarf away from his mouth to speak, “I suppose your — friend — must be the young man ahead who’s just positively lit up at the sight of you?”

She looked up; he was right, there was Gerald, shivering, with his own heavy cloak and blue-and-grey scarf wrapped tightly around himself, and he was grinning widely in her direction.

“Yes,” Calista said, and she felt herself lighting up too, like a star — like  _ une étoile _ — despite what she’d said to Amelia that morning. “That’s Gerald.”

She was grinning, too, by the time they reached him, and she couldn’t bring herself to care whether Professor Lupin noticed.

“Gerald,” she said, still smiling over the blowing wind, “You weren’t supposed to... we were supposed to meet near the bookstore.”

“Yes, well,” Gerald said, “I wasn’t completely convinced you were going to keep your promise to come along with someone —” he glanced at Professor Lupin, “ — But I’m glad to see that you have.”

“I said I would.” She glanced at Professor Lupin, and then back at Gerald, “Erm, this is Professor Lupin, by the way — he’s the new Defence professor. Professor, this is… erm, my…”

She suddenly felt awkward; she’d never had to introduce someone as her  _ boyfriend _ to a professor, before. Thankfully, Gerald took over, smiling politely and reaching his right hand out to shake the professor’s. “Gerald Boot,” he said, “It’s nice to meet you, sir. Calista tells me she’s learning things in Defence this year… I have to admit, I’m a bit envious.”

Lupin chuckled. “I did notice the curriculum from the last few years was, ah, somewhat lacking.”

Gerald quirked a brow. “Somewhat?” He shook his head, good-naturedly. “Well, at any rate, it’s freezing. I reckon we shouldn’t be standing here in the snow any longer than we have to. Thank you for accompanying Calista, sir.”

“It was my pleasure,” Lupin said, quite sincerely. He looked back to Calista. “I have a few errands to run while I’m here, then I think I’ll return to the castle early, provided you don’t need an escort for the return trip.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gerald said, reaching for Calista’s hand; his hands were clad in warm-looking blue gloves.

Professor Lupin took his leave. Gerald frowned down at Calista’s hand, still half-tucked into the sleeve of her jumper. “Where are your gloves?" he asked.

“I forgot them,” she said, pulling her scarf back up over her chin; gods, it was  _ cold _ .

Gerald promptly began pulling his own gloves off.

“No, it’s all right, I’m fine,” Calista protested; Gerald pressed them into her hands anyway.

“Go on,” he said, firmly. “Put them on. I have pockets.”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers stubbornly, and refused to move until she’d pulled his gloves onto her own hands; she had to admit, that did feel much better.

“Right,” he said, once she was wearing them, “Let’s go into the village. Somewhere  _ warm _ , preferably.”

“Bookstore?” she asked, as they trudged through the crust of snow on the ground, towards the High Street. It was usually a safe assumption; but Gerald shook his head.

“I don’t really want to go there today,” he said, “For two reasons. One, I’ve had… rather enough of bookstores lately. And two… there’s a new book release that I’ve already bought you for Christmas, but I know you’ll buy it yourself if you see it.”

She smiled. “I got you a book, too.”

He glanced at her and grinned. “Hopefully not the same one.”

Calista suppressed her own matching grin, as she recalled the narrow, winding aisles of the Knockturn Alley bookshop her father had taken her to; the stacks of obscure and limited-printing books; the small, dense leather-bound book she’d found, after hours of scouring the shelves. “I don’t think so.”

A gust of wind flew at them, pelting both of their faces with cold, wet snowflakes; they both started walking faster, as the High Street came into view.

“Tell you what,” Gerald said, wind whipping the steam away from his face as soon as it came out, in puffs, from his mouth, “I could use something hot to drink. Shall we go to the Three Broomsticks?”

“That sounds lovely, at the moment,” she said back, shivering as the wind found its way under her cloak, freezing her legs, despite the thick, warm tights she wore beneath.

They weren’t the only ones with that particular idea; when they arrived at the pub, it was full, and noisy, and crowded. A few people at the bar were smoking.

There were only a few open tables. Gerald spotted a tiny one, as far from the bar and the smoke as possible, and reached for her hand, leading her over to it. She noticed his hands were red, from the cold, and she felt a twinge of guilt, for forgetting her own gloves; she should have known he would insist on giving her his: it was precisely the kind of person he was.

“I’ll go up and order us something,” he said, pulling his scarf and cloak off, “What would you like? I know you don’t like tea — hot butterbeer perhaps? Or coffee?”

“Oh — yes, definitely coffee,” she said, reaching to tug at her own scarf; it was quite warm in the pub. He nodded, and went up to the bar to order.

The table he’d picked was tucked into an alcove, and as such, was quite small. She took the seat next to the window, hanging her cloak and scarf on the back of it. She pulled Gerald’s gloves off and put them on the table.

Gerald came back a minute later, cheeks pink from the sudden warmth after the sudden cold, with a cup of tea in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, and set them both down on the same side of the table. He dragged the other chair around the table, bringing it right next to hers, and sat down beside her.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching for the mug; it felt magnificent to wrap her fingers around it, and to inhale the warm, dark scent of the liquid. He’d ordered it black, just the way she liked it. She took a sip, and instantly felt the remaining chill drain out of her.

She felt his eyes on her, and looked up; he was frowning, with an expression of mild concern.

“Are you sleeping all right?” he asked her, “And are you eating enough?”

“No,” she said, “And yes.” She’d eaten a massive forkful of eggs just that morning, in fact; she scowled. “Don’t start fussing, please. I get enough of that from Dad.”

“It’s just… you look thinner, since the last time I saw you; and you look tired.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, “And besides, you’re not supposed to tell your girlfriend she looks tired, remember?”

“I am when she does, and when I’m concerned,” he said, echoing precisely a conversation they’d had last year, when Calista had been dealing with yet another round of strange, unsettling nightmares. It didn’t seem fair; after taking the memory back things were supposed to have  _ changed _ . That was the point; that was why she had done it. 

“Can we talk about something else, please?”

Gerald’s frown remained in place, but he nodded, reluctantly. “Like what?”

She searched her mind, for something she could bring up that wouldn’t bring them back around to any of the things she didn’t feel like talking about — her nightmares, her missing Paronus, Sirius Black… the thing Terry had told her, in the Owlery.

“What about that book?” she asked, finally settling on something that wouldn’t relate to any of those topics at all, “The one my Dad lent you, about Ilvermorny? Did you ever find out if any of that was related to your family?”

“Oh.” Gerald’s expression cleared. He nodded. “I guess I must have forgotten to tell you, with… with everything else going on. I ended up asking my cousin, Chadwick, about it — he lives in London too, with his fianc é e, and I’ve been meeting up with him now and again — and, remarkably, it  _ is _ all true. Everything you told me, and everything I read in  _ Ilvermorny, A History _ . He was surprised I didn’t know; but my father never told me, and I never saw any of them until after he went away, so…”

“What about that curse thing?” she wondered, “That wasn’t really true, was it?”

“As far as Chadwick knows, it was, although he didn’t know the precise story; he said the Boot family and the Flint family were allies at one point — trading partners — and then, at some point, it went sour, and… and there was the curse, and the last four Boots crossed the sea to the New World. I can’t imagine why doing that broke the curse, but it seemed to do just that. Chadwick was curious too, so we both did a bit of research, but neither of us came up with much.”

Gerald reached for his tea and took a sip. “Chadwick, erm… well, I told him a bit about… about Flint and I, our disagreements at school, and… er, how you used to go out with him, and he thought it would be funny if I told you the disagreement was over a girl —”

“ _ No _ ,” Calista interrupted, scowling, “That  _ wouldn’t _ be funny.”

“Well, I thought it was, a little bit,” Gerald said, trying and failing to suppress an amused smirk behind his teacup, “But I had a feeling you wouldn’t agree.”

He set his cup down again, and inched his chair closer to hers. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he said, reaching for her hand, the one that was on her lap; the other was wrapped firmly around her mug of coffee.

He lifted her hand to his mouth;  _ damn it _ , even after all this time, even when she was feeling mildly annoyed with him for reasons she couldn’t quite explain —  _ that _ gave her a pleasant fluttery feeling in her chest.

He pressed his lips to her fingers; she wanted to melt, despite herself, especially because he looked so  _ utterly _ adorable, with his cheeks pink, and yet another of those collared shirts she liked poking out of the neck of his jumper.

“What?” she asked quietly; she wanted to look around the pub, and see if anyone was looking at them, to see if she could get away, unseen, with kissing him; but she found she couldn’t quite take her eyes off his, as warm and steadfast as ever behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Would you come to dinner, at my house, during the Christmas break? My mum, and… and some of my family… they’d like to meet you properly, and I…” his mouth flickered into a small, sweet smile, “well, I’d kind of like to show you off.”

She felt herself blushing; his smile widened, and it was difficult not to respond in kind. “All right,” she said, “I’m — my father’s just told me I’m to stay with my aunt and uncle for the break, but — he did say I was free to see my friends… and you.”

“Good,” he said, “I’m really happy you’ll come.”

He kissed her hand again, and she couldn’t help it, she leaned closer to him; she wished they weren’t in a public place. She suddenly wanted to kiss him very, very badly; she wanted to taste his mouth, and run her fingers along his jaw and down the side of his neck to his collar, and not stop until  _ he  _ was the one blushing fiercely… and of course, thinking all of that only made her blush  _ more _ .

He released her hand, and slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. He kissed the side of her forehead, and then her cheek, and then he murmured near her ear:

“I’ve missed you so much,  _ mon beau colibri _ .”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, quietly; and in that moment, having felt any other way about him besides the way she was feeling right now seemed a very far way off, and not at all important. Amelia was right; who cared how  _ long _ he’d wanted them to be together? They were together  _ now _ , and just as her friend had said — they were  happy .

“I need something corny to call  _ you _ ,” she murmured, “Maybe —  _ mon adorable hibou _ ?”  _My adorable owl?_

Gerald flushed, and grinned, tightening his arm around her slightly. “We definitely need to work on your pronunciation,  _ mon cœur _ .”

She felt her cheeks get warmer, as she recognised the phrase that could be translated two ways: _my heart,_ or, more likely, _my sweethear_ _t_. 

“If you’re trying to pick words I wouldn’t know," she said, "That’s a poor choice. It’s too close to the Latin.”

“Mm. I’m actually just trying to choose words that will make you do precisely what you’re doing.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Blush,” he murmured, “And squirm closer to me.”

She felt a sweet, light shiver along her spine, and tried to tell herself it was a chill from the window at her back. She reached for her coffee again and took a hasty sip, hoping that it would serve to keep her old nemesis, hair-twirling girl, at bay — not that it mattered, really. Gerald seemed to like her just fine.

“So,  _ mon colibri _ ,” he said, after a few seconds of relative quiet; though Calista hardly noticed it anymore, the pub around them still hummed with conversation. “As much as I’d dearly love to spend the rest of the afternoon  _ c _ _ huchotements des doux mots _ — I should ask. How are you making out with your Patronus?”

“I…” Calista exhaled. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it, largely because she’d made virtually no progress, would even have preferred the romantic whispers he'd just suggested instead, but... he’d managed, somehow, to set her at ease, in the last few minutes. “Well, actually, I talked to Professor Lupin about it, and he suggested I… well, he suggested I treat the problem like an essay. You know, try to… to analyse why it’s failing and conduct research, and things.”

For some inexplicable reason, a smile flickered over Gerald’s features. “Really?”

“Mm. I’m reading Sparkman again. Last night, I was making notes about all of the case studies where the subject had the ability to conjure one initially, and then lost it.”

“I wish I brought…” Gerald mused; she looked over at him.

“You wish you brought what?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, quickly, and then: “So what else are you doing? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No…” she smirked, wryly and with little humour, “Not unless you have some other trick, for… for keeping the dreams away. That’s…” she shook her head. “That’s the  _ reason _ I was up, last night — or I guess it was early this morning — to take all those notes. At least I managed not to…”

She stopped, and felt herself flush, in an entirely different way that she’d been doing earlier.  _ Not to scream _ , she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Gerald squeezed her shoulder. “I do it too, sometimes,” he told her, quietly. “You think it’s happening again, and — until you realise it’s not real…”

“It’s just, it was supposed to stop, after…” She stopped. She’d never told him about the recovered memory. She wasn’t certain if she was ready to now; especially not  _ here _ , with the brightness, and smoke, and din of the pub all around them. “I just hoped it would stop,” she finished, lamely.

“I know,  _ mon colibri _ . Me, too.”

She drew in a breath; she’d said too much. The dream started bubbling its way up, from where she always tried to bury it; she could see her mother’s cold eyes, the wand — the tip of it pointed directly at her father, his face twisting, asking her what she was doing —

The darkness, the fear, started to seep into the forefront of her mind; she struggled, for a moment, to push it back, to see the bright light of the pub, the half-full mug of coffee against the wooden table instead of the eerie stillness of the dream-version of the Defence classroom, the sickening twisting and shifting of her mother’s image, turning into her  _ own _ image.

Gerald squeezed her shoulder again, and leaned closer to her, and suddenly, she remembered something that had helped, before.

“ _ Est non exigo idem eadem idem _ ,” she said quietly, in Latin.  _ It’s not exactly the same, this time. _

He reached for her hand with his free one, and held onto it, under the table.

“ _ Quam est inaequalis _ ?” he asked, quietly.  _ How is it different _ ? She felt a surge of gratitude, that he understood, that he remembered. Of course, it had been his idea, in the first place, to try saying the most difficult things in another language.

“ _ Non possum effugio _ ,”  _ I can’t run away. _

She felt the knot in her gut slither to life. In her mind, she could see her fingers, drawing her wand from her pocket, no matter how hard she tried to resist.

“ _ Mihi mater non vulnerat; pro illa imperat _ ,” she said, in a near-whisper.  _ My mother isn’t hurting me; instead, she’s commanding… _

She could almost feel the terrible, soft vibration of her mother’s cold whisper in her ear.  _ Imperio.  _ She could see the scars now, the terrible shape of them, vivid against the pallor of her skin: the thing that made her Dark, the reason that her mother had always been able to find her...

“ _ Ego…”  _ Calista said, “ _ Non possum _ …”  _  I can’t… _

Gerald squeezed her hand, and dimly she became acutely aware of his presence beside her, and of the raucous, festive cheer around them, the smoke that wafted lazily over their heads. For a second, wildly, she wanted to tell him; she wanted to tell him about the scars, and about the way her mother had used them. The way that she was afraid, still, that the scars had  _ done _ something to her permanently, that she was truly Marked by them as something evil. And then, in the distance, at the bar, a couple of very drunk, very rowdy warlocks started chanting an impolite Christmas carol, and Calista seized on the normalcy of it.

She imagined reaching into her mind, snatching the horrors, the dark things. She imagined burying them, far down in the recesses of her mind where they belonged; she felt them reluctantly obey, sinking down into the murk beyond her barriers.

Then she looked at Gerald. “I’m sorry,” she said, quietly, shaking her head. “This was — this is supposed to be a nice day, and I…”

“No,” Gerald said, earnestly, squeezing her hand again. “You’ve nothing to apologise for,  _ mon colibri, mon coeur _ .  I  _ asked _ . I asked, because I want to know. I want to help.”

She tugged her hand away, bringing it back to her lap; then, fearful he might simply reach for it again, as he had the last time she’d pulled away from him, she brought it above the table and reached for her mug. She lifted it to her mouth, took a sip; it was stone cold. How long had they been sitting there? How long had the horrors been slithering across her mind?

“Calista, I want to be here for you. Please —  _ Placeo ne faciam hoc iterum _ .”  _ Please don’t do this again. _

“I’m not doing anything,” she snarled, “I’m — I’m just — I’m  _ fine _ .”

“You’re not,” he said, quietly, “And you’re trying to push me away. Whatever it is, that you’re afraid will make me think less of you… it won’t.  _ Promitto. _ ”  _ I promise. _

She felt her heart start to race; she felt panicked, cornered. He had told her that he was not a legilimens; then how,  _ how _ could he read her so well? She had a flash of memory, of the two of them sitting at the kitchen table in the small, cramped kitchen at the house in Cokeworth, huddled over a sheet of parchment. He’d drawn something in the corner; a rune. He’d tried to explain why he’d picked it, to represent her.

_ ‘Hummingbirds are… well, they’re small, and beautiful, and they fly away when you get too close…’ _

He’d always understood, that was her instinct. But then she remembered what someone  _ else _ had told her, about the hummingbird rune.

_ ‘He’s been drawing that on random sheets of parchment since his third or fourth year, I think. Maybe earlier.’ _

“Why’s that?” she asked, feeling one of the wretched snakes extract itself from the knot in her gut; it started slithering its way through her heart and up out of her throat, and before she could stop it, it was in her mouth. “You won’t think less of me because — because it’s not even really  _ about _ me, is it? It’s just — it’s just, you wanted to take something from Marcus.”

Gerald furrowed his brow. “Erm — what?”

“He told me what you said, when I broke up with him.”

Gerald blinked; he looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus Charm. “Erm. All right. What did I say?”

“You said — you said he lost me forever, because I figured out I was too good for him, or something like that…”

“All right,” Gerald said again, with a crease of puzzlement between his eyebrows “I probably did say that — ah, but — why is that making you upset?”

“Then you told him that you were already going after me instead — because we were  _ friends,  _ and everyone knows that’s how Marcus and I started out…”

She was pulling away from him physically now, as far as she could go without getting out of her seat.

Gerald’s expression shifted; he looked aggrieved, annoyed. “That’s  _ not _ what I said. If he told you that, Calista, he lied to you.”

“He wouldn’t be stupid enough to. He —” She stopped. She’d almost said,  _ He knows I can tell _ , and then she remembered that she’d never told Gerald she could perform legilimency; and, she realised, she hadn’t actually  tried to gauge the truth of Marcus’ words. She hadn’t felt right about doing so.

“Well, evidently he  _ is  _ stupid enough!” Gerald said; his voice rose slightly. He sounded angry; she realised she’d never seen his anger directed towards  _ her _ ; she’d only ever seen it on her behalf, when he’d railed against Quirrell, and against her mother. “I never said anything like that. I wouldn’t have assumed —” he stopped, and took a breath. “Why was he even talking to you, anyway? Was it just to say some rubbish about me that he made up?”

“No,” she said, “He wanted my advice on…”  _ how to break up with his girlfriend _ ; nearly too late, she realised that Amelia was precisely right about how  _ that _ situation would sound, if she verbalised it now. “Something,” she finished. “And — he told me that you’ve been — that you were after me the whole time I was going with him, and — just so you know, I basically told him to sod off, and never to talk to me again —”

“Well,” Gerald said, bitingly, “That sounds like the first positive thing to come out of  _ that _ conversation.”

“But it wasn’t just him,” she pushed on, “Someone  _ else _ told me that, too; they told me you’ve fancied me for ages. Since… since your third year, or before…”

“Well.” Gerald swallowed, and pushed his empty teacup away from himself. “However I felt — whenever I felt it — I never told anyone, until I told you; and except for that first time, when I told you it was only because of your notes that I approached you, I never told  _ you _ anything that wasn’t true.”

“You said you started wanting to be my friend because of my notes, and because of… other things,” she conceded; something in her was telling her to  _ stop _ , to just shut up, but the knot of snakes in her gut was wriggling and writhing recklessly. She pushed on. “You didn’t let on that it was anything more than friendship you were after, then… you didn’t tell me you were drawing that rune about me since you were — what, thirteen?”

Gerald blinked; he looked slightly dazed, as if he was in disbelief that the conversation had taken this turn. “I did tell you,” he said, quietly. “I told you I’d had the rune — a good bit before I knew the form of your Patronus.”

“I guess I didn’t realise ‘a good bit’ was  _ years _ …” She pushed her mug away too, with its remnants of cold coffee.

Gerald shook his head. “Calista, this is… what do you want out of this? What do you want me to tell you? What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said; well, that was true. “I guess I just want the truth.” Did she even want that? Did she even care? Or was it just that she wanted him to forget what she’d almost told him…

“Then ask me,” he said, “Ask me anything you want, and I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t have anything to hide from you.”

She felt a sharp pain in her gut; like one of the snakes had bitten her. _But_ _I have things to hide from you._ She could feel a pulsing in the depths of her mind; something threatened to bubble up again, and she forced it mercilessly back down.

“Forget it,” she said; suddenly, she felt empty, defeated. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Calista…”

“You’re rethinking things, aren’t you?” she asked, quietly.

Gerald shook his head, bewildered. “ _ What _ things?” There was still an edge to his voice; he was still cross, or frustrated, or both.

“You never imagined I’d be this difficult, did you?” There was a bitterly smug note in her own voice; she could hear it and she  _ hated _ it, but she couldn’t make herself stop.

Gerald took in a deep breath, and then let it out. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, rather sharply. “I always knew you’d fly away, at first — and I knew you were defensive, and private, and… and other things, and I accept that because I understand  _ why _ you are the way you are.”

_ Shit.  _ “Gerald, I’m sorry —” she started.

“What I  _ didn’t _ expect,” he said, “Was that it would never stop — that no matter what I say, or do, to try and show you that you can trust me — you just  _ won’t. _ And I didn’t expect you’d just blindly believe fucking _ Flint _ again —”

Calista started; she realised she’d never heard him curse before, even though she’d done it in front of him.

“ — instead of just  _ asking _ me what happened,” he finished.

There was a jingling of bells, then; the door of the pub swung open, as it had been doing since they’d arrived. They’d more or less ignored it; but this time, Gerald tensed.

“Gerald, I’m sorry,” Calista said again, “I don’t know why —”

“Can we go?” he asked, suddenly, “I don’t want to be here anymore…”

She looked up, and followed his gaze to the door; several familiar figures were filing in, and one she’d only seen in pictures…

It was the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, and Hagrid, the gamekeeper —  _ no, _ she remembered,  _ he’s a professor now, too _ . That reminded her that she’d never asked one of her friends to take a look at the hippogriff that had attacked Draco, to see if anything seemed unusual about it.

“Gerald, I said I’m sorry…”

“It’s not that,” he said, voice fraught and hard. “It’s Flitwick. I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want him to ask me…”

Calista felt another lurch in her gut; she could guess what Gerald didn’t want Flitwick to ask him about; it was the same thing she hadn’t wanted her father to ask  _ her _ about, but he had anyway.

“Yeah, of course,” Calista said, because she felt that she owed him  _ that _ much at least, after what had just happened. She stood up, and hurriedly started putting her cloak and scarf on, as Flitwick, and the Minister, and the others were seated at a table on the other side of the pub.

He stood, too, and threw his own cloak on, hastily; he got the clasp wrong, it was only half-fastened, and looked fit to fly open again, but he didn’t seem to notice. He wrapped his scarf around his neck quickly, and picked his gloves up off the table, holding them out towards her.

She rolled her eyes, and grabbed his hand. The professors and the Minister were placing their drink order now, with Rosmerta at their table — it was the perfect time to slip out unnoticed, so she pulled him along with her, across the pub and out the door.

As soon as they’d exited into the frigid, windy outdoors, she reached over, slipping her hands under his scarf to try and fix his cloak, and he thrust the gloves out at her.

“Your cloak’s not fastened right,” she told him.

He frowned. “Your hands are going to freeze —”

“Well, I guess that’s my fault,” she said, fixing the clasp. She withdrew her hands. “I’m the idiot that forgot my gloves.”

Gerald plucked her wrist out of the air gently, and pressed his gloves into her palm. “Just put the damn things on,” he said, irritably. “I’m not going to let my girlfriend get frostbite.”

Calista swallowed, and obediently took the gloves again, wriggling her fingers into them; at least, she thought with an odd, mixed sense of relief and apprehension, he was still calling her that…

They set off, back towards the castle. Neither of them said anything, until they had left the HIgh Street far behind them.

“This is just the way I am,” Calista said, quietly when they were about halfway back; she hadn’t realised she was going to say it. If they hadn’t been walking in the same direction the wind was blowing, this time, her words would’ve been carried away on it.

“I know.”

“I wish I could stop.”

“You can.”

They didn’t say anything else until they’d reached the gate. Calista turned to look at Gerald; he had his hands stuffed into his pockets, and he looked miserable. Part of her — the small part of her that, somewhere far removed from the pit of snakes that had taken up residence in her gut, still held out hope that she might one day get her Patronus back — wanted to reach for him, to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him and look into his eyes, so there could be no mistake, and tell him again that she was sorry. She dropped her eyes to her hands, and pulled his gloves off, one at a time.

“Here,” she said, holding them out. He looked at her wordlessly, didn’t reach out to take them back.

“You’ll need them for the way home,” she said, slightly softer.

“I’m just going to Disapparate, once you go inside. I’ll manage.”

“Well, I’m not putting them back on, so you might as well take them.”

Gerald frowned. He shook his head, stubbornly, and kept his hands in his pockets.

“I hope you will put them back on,” he said, evenly; the wind picked up again, and threatened to steal his words away. He raised his voice over it. “But if you don’t — at least I know I left you with the option. I suppose that’s all I can really do.”

Calista felt two warring urges, again; one, the more powerful one, the one that kept feeding the snakes in her gut and kept digging at the buried memories in the back of her mind, wanted to thrust the gloves forcefully back at him; she felt her fingers itching to do it.

The much smaller part, the part that still felt the familiar, bright pull of light whenever she attempted the Patronus Charm — the part that had almost told him,  _ twice _ now, about her scars — the part that had very nearly said or written, a dozen times over now, three beautiful and terrifying words — that part of her urged her to slip the gloves back on her hands, and put her arms around him, before he left.

She didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she took a step back, and another, still holding the gloves in her hand. Then, she nodded at him, though even  _ she _ wasn’t certain what she was trying to say. She turned, and went through the gate. She listened for the  _ pop _ of him Disapparating, but either he didn’t go right away, or she couldn’t hear it over the wind. She didn’t look back to see which one it was.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista didn’t know where to go, when she re-entered the castle. She didn’t want to go to her dormitory, or her common room; she didn’t even want to go to the library. She hadn’t wanted to go back to the strange, secret room on the seventh floor ever since it had locked her in, last time.

In the end, she wound up in her father’s office. She didn’t remember deciding to go there, or even walking there; but when she realised she was there, she dropped into the chair across from his desk, and tried to imagine that he was sitting behind it.

_ ‘What do you want now?’ he would ask, waspishly; he’d had a long day, and those damn Weasley twins had blown up yet another cauldron. Moreover, they’d been bickering for weeks, he and Calista, and he suspected she was here for another round. _

_ ‘I want to go swimming in the lake,’ she’d tell him, because she couldn’t very well tell him about any of the things that were actually bothering her; she couldn’t tell him about her missing Patronus, or about the horrible, twisted series of nightmares that always seemed to end just before she was forced to murder him. She couldn’t tell him about the darkness that was eating away at her, day by day, with the mouths of a thousand tiny, invisible snakes. She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t just the pattern on her back that was bothering her; it was the same pattern on his forearm. She couldn’t tell him that she’d started to wonder, in her darkest and loneliest moments, precisely what he’d done to earn it. _

She felt the snakes writhing again; she felt the sharp, insidious bite of their teeth somewhere in her insides, and she was just so tired of feeling that particular pain, day after day, that she decided it might be time to just let them have at it — to stop trying to resist, and just let them rip a hole in her gut and slither out. Maybe they would keep biting, straight through her muscles and her skin; maybe they’d crawl out and leave her forever. Or… maybe they’d spread, following her veins up and down and all the way through her, until they filled her — maybe they’d seek out that tiny part of her that still felt a spark of hope, and pump it full of venom.

There was really only one way to find out…

She started, as the door flew open; not the one she’d come through, but the one on the opposite wall, that led to her father’s quarters.

Her father’s eyes swept over the room, and landed on her. He waited. She had the distinct impression that she was supposed to say something.

“I…” she started; she could feel something, and she didn’t know if it was the snakes, or the bubbling memories, or if she was just about to be sick. She wanted to tell him to go away, that she was fine, and she wanted to ask him for help, both at the same time. She couldn’t make the words for either of those things come out of her mouth, so she settled for precisely what she’d imagined, after all.

“I want to go swimming in the lake,” she said quietly.

Without a word, her father crossed the room, and he lifted her up, out of the chair; he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and he guided her into his quarters, shutting the door to his office quietly behind them. He led her into his study, into the chair she always sat in, when she came in there, and then he sat down across from her, pulling his chair close so that their knees were only inches apart.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Calista,” he said, quietly; and his voice was so soft, so fucking  _ kind _ and sympathetic that it twisted her up inside even further.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Then tell me something else,” Severus said, “Tell me  _ anything _ .”

She swallowed. Now that she was here, in a safe place… now that she was looking at her father, who always seemed to be able to fix whatever mess she’d made… she felt stronger. She thought she could go on a little longer. She started to draw the curtains around the dark things in her mind, whispered to the snakes to lay still, for now.

“I… I had a row with Gerald,” she said, because she knew she couldn’t get away without saying anything.

“Oh? About what?”

“I found out from — other people — that he… that he fancied me for a long time before he ever said anything. Before he even talked to me, I think. When I was still…”

She cut herself off, and shrugged.

“And?”

“And nothing,” she said, shortly, “I asked him about it; he didn’t say it wasn’t true. He basically admitted that it was. Which means… I mean, probably he  _ was _ trying to be my friend and everything else just to get me to break up with Marcus, because he and Marcus always hated each other so much.”

She expected her father to snarl and snap; she waited, with a mixture of dread and anticipation, for him to forbid her from seeing Gerald anymore…

“I wonder who put that particular idea in your head,” he said, and his voice  _ was _ laced with venom, but somehow not at all in the way she’d expected. “Was it, perhaps — Mr. Flint?”

“So what if it was? Gerald basically said it was true; he said he’d had that stupid rune for me since… since he was thirteen. Maybe earlier.”

Her father let a long, slow breath out through his nostrils. “Would this be the same ‘stupid rune’ that, up until this very day, made you turn red and smile, and hide his letters in your textbooks when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

She felt herself flushing again, resentfully. “Yes.”

“Ah. And now you’ve suddenly decided to find it… objectionable?”

“Yes,” she said, forcefully. “It is objectionable, because… because…”

This wasn’t going at all the way that she’d expected. She searched for words that might steer it in the direction she  _ did _ expect, and all the while, the misguided, hopeful little voice in her brain jumped and hollered and tried to get her attention, tried to tell her to  _ just tell him the truth. _ She silenced it; she pulled the curtain around it, only the second she did, all of the darkness started to drift upwards again; evidently, she couldn’t suppress both parts at once.

“It’s objectionable because he spent all these years apparently  _ pining _ after me, and didn’t say anything for ages — because he just kept hanging around and saying he was my friend, and apparently, he wanted more than that all along — and I don’t know, don’t you find that just a bit  _ creepy _ ?”

Severus stood, abruptly. Calista felt a terrible shiver. Here it was, he was going to rage and howl and demand that she stop seeing Gerald at once; and she couldn’t even tell anymore if it was terror or a masochistic sort of glee that she felt that the prospect.

“No,” Severus said, in a voice that she’d never heard him direct at her before, “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

His eyes were cold, and black, his face hard and foreboding; looking at him in that moment, Calista felt like she’d been slapped — or like someone had just thrown her outside, in the raging wind and swirling snow, completely naked.

“And neither do  _ you _ ,” Severus continued; still, his expression didn’t change. He swept away from her, pacing to the far side of the room. He stood there for a minute, with his back to her, and neither one of them of them said anything. Calista was afraid to.

After a minute, or an eternity — she honestly didn’t know which — he turned to face her, and took one step forward.

“What is it, really, Calista? What did you tell him, or what did he guess, that’s made you decide you need to push him away?”

“ _ Nothing _ ,” she said, fiercely; he merely stared at her, black eyes locked on black eyes. She wanted to look away, but didn’t dare.

Finally, she had to answer, just so he’d look away. “I  _ almost _ told him about my scars,” she said, “ _ Twice _ . I can’t… I can’t tell  _ anyone  _ that…”

Severus’ jaw twitched. “I recall the first time you almost told him,” he said, quietly. “It was at the end of the summer —”

“I don’t want to talk about the summer.”

He ignored her, and pressed on. “ — and you were finally doing  _ better _ .”

“That’s not true.”

Her father took another step towards her. “Oh, yes, it  _ is _ true,” he told her, “And I know it’s true, because I spent that whole bloody summer watching you — analysing every word you said, every look in your eyes, every argument you started and every damn bite of food you ate. And do you know why I did that, Calista?”

She pulled a sour face. “Because you’re paranoid, and you don’t have anything better to do.” She felt her heart start pounding; she was playing a dangerous game, when his eyes still looked like that. She had the distinct impression that she was one more sarcastic comment away from writing a thousand lines, only she had no idea what they might say, now.

He sucked in a breath, and hissed it out. Maybe it wouldn’t be lines; maybe he  _ would _ lock her in his office, for the rest of term. Maybe he wouldn’t even let her leave for her classes; maybe he’d have her other professors come by and slide her assignments under the door. The visual was so absurd, and the situation so unbearably heavy, that — to her horror, she felt herself start to laugh.

He hissed again, and his hand shot out, and gripped her shoulder; it was sudden, and unexpected, and she started, her shoulder jerking back involuntarily. She hadn’t done that around him in years. He pulled his hand back, like she’d bitten it.

All of that accomplished one thing; she stopped laughing.

“I did that,” he said, quietly, “Because I was terrified that I was going to lose you if I didn’t. The day you recovered the memory —”

“No,” Calista whispered, “Please — I don’t want to talk about that.”

Severus pressed on, again. “You started to retreat,” he said, “You started to withdraw; your eyes were empty, and you would barely speak. I thought — I thought I’d made the worst mistake of my life, asking you to take that memory back…”

_ Shit. _ Calista felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “You did,” she said. The words wrenched themselves painfully out of her, so much so that she doubled over when she said them. “ _ I  _ did. I can’t do this; I can’t do any of it.”

Severus closed the remaining distance between them, and he slipped his finger under her chin, lifting it up, forcing her to look at him again. “ _ Yes, you can _ ,” he told her, and she was stunned, because she could see in his face that he  _ believed _ it — but how  _ could _ he, after what he’d just said?

“Do you know when I realised I hadn’t made a mistake?”

_ Is this a trick question? _ She wanted to ask, but she couldn’t bring herself to open her mouth again.

“It was the very next morning. Boot came to the house; he was the one that first told me about the paper, about Black escaping. He’d rushed over the second he saw it, because he knew you’d be distraught —”

“I thought you invited him,” she interrupted, “I thought you told him to come, because you thought it would help, or something.”

“I didn’t. He came on his own, and then he insisted on cooking breakfast. I went upstairs, and I told you about Black’s escape, because I knew I had to — it would be worse if you read it in the paper yourself — and the whole time I was cursing the timing of it more than anything, because it was the  _ worst  _ possible day for you to receive news like that.”

He shifted his hand to her shoulder; she didn’t flinch this time, and she didn’t look away from him.

“You came downstairs, and I think Boot and I could both see that you were not well; but you were  _ you _ . Your eyes were sad, but they weren’t empty. I knew you would be all right, no matter how long it took. And then, as the summer went on, you finally started opening up again; to me, and to Boot, and to your friends. I heard you tell Miss Slater about the orphanage; I heard you  _ almost _ tell Boot about your scars. I think I had more hope for you, at the end of this summer, than I ever have before.”

The tears were stinging Calista’s eyes again, because suddenly she could remember, with perfect clarity, what he was describing. She had  _ felt _ more hope, deep inside of her, at the end of that summer, than she’d ever felt before. But then…

“Then something happened,” Severus said, and his grip on her shoulder tightened. “And I think it was my fault; I should have warned you, that I thought your spells were getting stronger. I should have warned you, that the spell was meant for larger prey…”

She felt tears sliding down her face now; she reached a hand up to scrub them angrily away.

“It’s not just — it’s not just that,” she whispered; she could feel the snakes writhing around in her gut now; it was agony. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.

“What else is it, Calista?”

_ What’s the point anymore? _ What did it even matter, if Severus raged and scolded, and told her she couldn’t go outside the castle? She didn’t even know if Gerald would want to see her again; she told herself she didn’t know if she wanted to see  _ him _ again, either. She winced, as one of the snakes dug its fangs into her belly, with that thought.

“I lost my Patronus,” she said, quietly; when seconds of silence stretched out between them, she said it again, louder: “I lost my Patronus. I found out on the train, when the dementors boarded and it failed — and I’ve been trying it ever since, hundreds of times, a  _ thousand _ times, and it’s just… gone.”

She braced herself for him to shout, or for the quiet hiss that was even worse than that; instead, something so bewildering happened that it took her a few seconds to realise what it was.

He knelt down, in front of her chair, and pulled her to him, securely; it was the second time that year he’d done it, the second time that he’d made her feel, for a minute, like a small child again; except,  _ this _ time, she could suddenly remember, with perfect clarity, the look on  _ his _ face, as she’d seen it when they had stepped into the Pensieve, and into her memories.

She hadn’t remembered it, before then; maybe because the memory of the nightmares he’d been comforting her from had been taken, or maybe because, when she’d  _ first _ seen that expression on his face, at six or seven years old, she’d had no idea what it was. She’d had no idea what it meant to be loved.

“Calista, why haven’t you told me?”

“I thought…” she murmured; she pulled back, just long enough to look at his face; she felt her breath catch.  _ Yes. _ It was the same. “I thought you’d be angry… and I thought… I thought you might tell me that meant I was…”

A sudden sob choked her throat; it felt like one of the snakes was crawling up. “You told me Death Eaters couldn’t conjure them,” she wheezed past it, “You told me  _ she _ couldn’t conjure one —”

Severus swore, quietly.

“I had no idea,” he said, “I just — I was running out of ways to try and convince you that you’re — Calista, you’re a  _ good person _ .”

She shook her head; she coughed. “I’m not, not really, not all the way down. She...”

_ She can still control me, if she ever gets out; she can still make me hurt people. _

“I lost my Patronus, once,” he said quietly, “When I was — twenty-one. It was gone for almost a year. I thought it was gone for good.”

She felt a funny jolt in her chest. Her gut pulsed, and she thought it felt like the knot, the pit, the cluster of snakes inside, got just a tiny bit looser, or a tiny bit smaller.

“How did you… how did you get it back?”

“Eventually, I found something I could pull out of the pain that caused my Patronus to leave me in the first place; it wasn’t joy. It wasn’t acceptance. It wasn’t understanding. It was just — it was just something I could do, with what I’d learned.”

She swallowed. It sounded an awful lot like what Professor Lupin had been trying to tell her. “Purpose,” she said, quietly, and her father nodded, grimly.

“Yes; purpose. And you will find that again, too, Calista. Even if it takes a year, or more.”

“It’s not just the Patronus, either,” she said; she felt her heart pick up momentum again, as her mind summoned, again, the image of her wand pointed between his eyes. “It’s also — there’s a dream I keep having…”

Severus shifted slightly; she thought he might have sighed. He kept his hands at her shoulders.

“It’s not really like the ones I used to have,” she said, “It’s… well, I always thought nothing could be worse than the ones I used to have, but this one is.”

It hurt, to keep talking; she could feel a powerful ache, in her gut and in her heart, and pulsing in the back of her mind; but it also hurt  _ not  _ to keep talking, and she’d gotten this far, already.

“It starts out about a boggart,” she told him, “And at first it’s  _ her _ — and I’m trying to call you for help, and eventually I can tell that you’ve heard me, that you’re coming… but then, she tells me to come closer to her, and I can’t help it, I don’t want to — but my feet keep moving, and then — and then, the boggart starts changing,  _ she _ starts changing. It’s not her anymore, it’s  _ me _ …”

She felt tears on her face again, but she was too weary, now, to try and brush them away.

“And then  _ I’m _ me. I mean — I’m not looking at someone that looks like me anymore, I’m just standing where the boggart-me was… and I don’t always see her anymore, but I can feel her, standing right behind me, and… and she tells me I have to… and I can’t stop…”

Her voice grew thick, and her throat started to ache.

“Go on,” her father said, softly. She nodded, and coughed again; a sob spilled out, and with it, she thought, a cluster of the wretched, wriggling snakes.

“That’s when you come to the door,” she said, feeling the dread settling into her stomach, “And she — and she tells me I have to  _ kill _ you, and then — and then she says ‘ _ Imperio’ _ , right in my ear, and my wand arm goes up — “

His grip on her shoulder tightened; he shifted again.

“I always wake up, then,” she said, “But it doesn’t matter — I know I’m… I know I’m about to do it, even though I’d rather die  _ myself _ . Because of the curse.”

Her father’s arms came around her fully, then; for a few seconds. She thought he might press her face to his shoulder, as he had done a few times when she was small, and as he had done when she’d had to see Penny Petrified in the hospital wing; when she’d been reminded of all the deaths she’d witnessed…

He didn’t do that, though. He released her from the embrace after only a few seconds, and he mer her gaze.

“All right, then,” he said, “Would you like me to teach you to resist the Imperius Curse?”

Her heart started pounding again, but for an entirely different reason and in an entirely different way than it had been, earlier.

“That’s — you can  _ resist _ —?”

“It is generally regarded as a very difficult thing to do,” he told her, “And since one has to be put under the curse in order to learn — there’s not usually an opportunity to do so. But, as it happens — being an Occlumens is going to make it remarkably easier for you than it is for most.”

Calista reached up, and wiped her cheeks. This time, there were no further tears to replenish the ones she brushed away.

“Yes,” she said, “I want you to teach me.”

He nodded. “Then I suppose we have a new topic, for our Defence lessons.” He released his hold on her, after a minute, and rose; she saw him wince and heard one of his knees crack as he did so, and she realised be’d been kneeling there, in front of her chair for quite some time. “I don’t think I need to tell you, but I will anyway — no one can know. Even for the purposes of teaching you to resist it, I would not be pardoned for casting the spell.”

She sucked in a breath; she realised that the ache in her gut, even though it was still there, had been reduced considerably. She couldn’t feel any of the snakes, at the moment.

“And you’re still… you’re willing to risk casting it… to help me?”

“Well,” he said, a bit wryly, “I certainly trust you to keep a secret.” His gaze flickered over her, in the familiar, inventorying way he had. He nodded, evidently satisfied, for now.

“And,” he said, quite a bit more solemnly, “I told you — I’ll do anything to help you.”

She sighed. She had a sudden jittery, light feeling; she realised it was the spark of hope, growing larger. It had let itself out from the back of her mind, was working its way slowly through her.

“I should have come to you sooner,” she said.

It was her father’s turn to sigh, next. “I’ve given up on asking why you don’t.”

Calista yawned; it wasn’t that late. It was probably only dinnertime, or just barely past it, but she hadn’t slept well in — Merlin even knew how long.

“I think you should eat,” Severus said, “And then I think you should go to bed.”

She nodded. She stood up; and then she remembered something.

“Wait,” she said, “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

She stepped closer to him, and she reached out, to touch  _ his _ shoulder.

“I’m think I’m glad I’m in Slytherin. With you.”

She saw a funny glint in his eyes; and then she saw him smile.

“As am I, Calista.”


	11. Chapter 11

Calista woke with bleary eyes and heavy limbs. Her mind felt full of fog.

She yawned, and stretched, and rubbed her eyes. She had no idea what time it was, but she expected it was likely morning, or close enough to it to get out of bed. Bed felt so nice, though. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes. She  _ could  _ go back to sleep…

The events of the day before slowly began to seep into her her mind, penetrating the fog. She remembered confessing, finally, to her father that her Patronus had failed. She remembered telling him, even through the ache and dread in her heart, about the dream.

And then, she remembered, with a small, hopeful smile, what he had offered. What he could teach her. If she could truly learn to resist the Imperius Curse, then she would never again have to fear becoming Bellatrix’s puppet against her will. She would never have to dread that the events of the dream might someday come true.

She frowned, thoughtfully, and sat up in her bed. She realised she hadn't had the dream last night. In fact, she couldn’t remember having  _ any  _ dreams. Perhaps she hadn’t really been asleep as long as she’d thought; perhaps it was really only an hour or two since she’d gone to bed, But… she felt a rolling growl in her stomach. Whatever time it was, she was hungry.

She pushed the blankets off and swung her legs over the side of her bed; she remembered, suddenly, that not  _ everything _ yesterday had come out all right. She still didn’t know where things stood with Gerald. She wasn’t sure, either, which one of them it was up to, to decide that.

She reached her hands under her pillow, and withdrew the thick, warm blue gloves that she’d stashed there, the night before. It had seemed corny, but she’d been in a sentimental mood, with a silvery, fluid sort of hope pushing its way through her veins like sap through the branches of a tree, and she’d accidentally brought the gloves into her bedroom anyway.

Surely, it was sheer exhaustion and the relief of her long-overdue conversation with her father that had given her a handful of hours of dreamless, restful sleep, and not something as silly as a pair of gloves…

She should owl them back to him. She could bring them up to the Owlery right now, send them along with Lucerne. The problem with that plan, though, was that if she sent them back without a note, it would look like she was cross with him, and if she sent them back  _ with _ a note… well, she’d have to think of something to say.

She stood up, and her stomach growled again, demanding that she put something in it. She crossed the tiny room to the chest of drawers that mostly held a few nightdresses and an assortment of clothes that no longer fit her very well anymore. She should get rid of most of it, really. Especially since, next year, this room would no longer be hers at all. She felt a funny little jolt in her stomach; she wasn’t ready to think about that, yet.

She opened the top drawer, and put the gloves inside, almost exactly in the spot where she’d kept her little journal, when she was small, and then she dressed and went out into the kitchen.

Her father came in while she was brewing a pot of coffee. He waved his wand, and a small platter of sandwiches appeared on the table.

Calista raised her eyebrows, taking a mug down from the cupboard and filling it to the brim with the dark, fragrant liquid.

“That’s not breakfast food,” she said.

He smirked slightly, and came over to the worktop to join her. He took a second mug down, and filled it. “And it’s not morning,” he said.

Calista blinked. “It  _ is _ still night, then; how late is it?”

“It’s about two o’clock in the afternoon,” he said; when her brows shot up, he added, “On Sunday.”

She carried her mug to the table and took her customary spot. She took a fortifying sip before reaching for one of the sandwiches.

“Seriously?” she asked, after she’d taken several bites and another sip. “I really slept — what, _eighteen_ _hours_? You’re having me on.”

Severus hid a smirk behind his own mug, and then set it down on the worktop beside him. “I believe that’s an accurate estimate. You needed it, clearly.”

“Merlin,” Calista said, shaking her head, “And honestly — I almost went back to sleep, just now, except I was hungry.”

She picked up a second sandwich, and then Severus picked up his mug, crossed the kitchen and went out. A minute later, he returned, with a folded packet of parchment in one hand, and his mug still in the other. 

“Oh!” Calista looked up, and swallowed the bite that was in her mouth. “I’ve missed the train, back to London…”

Severus took a sip of his coffee. Then he nodded.

“I already called Narcissa and told her you’d be arriving tomorrow, instead; I’ll Apparate with you.”

She didn’t bother pointing out that she could Apparate on her own; she had a feeling she knew why he wanted to accompany her, and why he had decided against her taking the train back to London, after all.

“You’re worried about dementors on the train again,” she guessed, quietly; Severus didn’t respond, except to frown, and set the bundle of parchment he was holding down on the table beside her half-full coffee mug.

“You had an owl, this morning,” he said, eyes looking down at it. She followed his gaze; it was folded in three, and sealed. Her name stared up at her, in neat, familiar handwriting: ‘Calista’.

She felt her heart drop, a little. No runes; she’d gotten used to seeing runes on the front.

“Mr. Boot’s owl was still in the owlery when I left; it seems to want to wait for a reply.”

He took another long sip from his mug, and then he crossed back to the worktop and set the mug in the basin. “I have a potion going that needs to be completed by nightfall. I’ll be in my workroom if you need me.”

Calista chewed the last bite of her sandwich slowly, staring at the front of the letter. Dimly, she heard her father take his leave; she she heard the door to his workroom open and then shut again, heard his footsteps gradually retreat down the stairs.

She swallowed, with difficulty, and then — with hands that suddenly felt weak, and fingers that were trembling, she broke the seal on the letter, and opened it.

There were no runes inside, either; there were only two long sheets of parchment, filled edge to edge with neat, carefully formed words in plain English. It was without a doubt the longest letter anyone had ever written her. Suddenly, she was afraid to read it; she felt her heart drop into her stomach, and she flipped, hastily, to the second page, to see how the letter was signed.

_ Most sincerely yours, _

_ Gerald C. Boot. _

She exhaled. At least that still seemed the same.

She took another sip of coffee, and then she set her mug down, and allowed herself to read the letter, from the beginning.

_ Dear Calista, _

_ My intention, when I left today, was to give you a few days of space. I think I know you well enough now to know when you’ve made up your mind to push me a few steps away, and I believe that’s what happened today; but now, it’s late and I can’t sleep, and it occurs to me that if I’ve guessed wrong, I could risk a lot over something that is very easily correctable, and so I’ve decided that I should give you exactly what you asked for today: the truth, in its entirety, and as plainly as I can, even though some of it is cringe-inducingly embarrassing. _

_ I was very lonely, before Hogwarts. Like many half-blood or Muggle-born children, I was sent to primary school, but because of the way things were at home, I had a hard time making friends. I was always the odd one in school. I was too quiet some days and too loud other days, and I often said the wrong things. I wore the wrong clothes: I was the only boy in the neighbourhood wearing long sleeves in the summertime, and I imagine I don’t need to tell you why. I never wanted to be at home, but no one wanted me anywhere else, so I started going to the library, as early in the morning and as late into the evening as I could. I read everything I could get my hands on; it sounds strange, but it helped, to think of my books when my father would hurt me. It helped me go somewhere else, in my head. _

_ You already know what happened, when I was ten, and that my testimony sent my father to Azkaban. I had very mixed feelings, which I couldn’t make sense of at the time, but that I’ve come to understand, partly with your help, were probably very normal. I felt guilty, both for acting and for not acting soon enough to prevent Terry from becoming a target. I felt left out, and even more alone, because we had to move suddenly, and even though it was a new neighbourhood with new children, I felt that somehow they all knew that I was the odd boy with the funny clothes and the father in prison. _

_ I decided that Hogwarts would be my fresh start, and it was. I was happy, to be sorted into Ravenclaw, where no one thought it was strange how much time I spent buried in a book. I think I nearly cried with joy that first night, when I walked into the common room and saw that it was basically a library. My roommates were nice, and maybe we were all a bit odd, because I found that I could get on with them all right. Then, one night, a few months into term, I had a nightmare at school, and I woke my roommates up with it. They were good about it; they asked me what was wrong and I started to tell them. I said that my father was coming after me… that he was going to hurt me… and then I saw their faces change, and it was like the boys in primary school, looking at me like there was something wrong with me, and I told them, hastily, that my father had turned into a vampire, in the dream. That, they understood. They all went back to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was afraid the dream might come back if I did, but even more than that, I was afraid I might end up the odd boy out again, if people started to realise that’s what I’d been before. _

_ Around the same time, I started to have some trouble with a couple of Slytherins in my Herbology class. I think at first, they were just bored and I was an easy target. I was small, I was quiet, and I still said the wrong things, sometimes. I could deal with being called names and I just did my best to ignore them at first. It was when one of them decided to hex me outside the Greenhouse one day that everything got worse. I got knocked down, and my books got muddy, and it was the first time anyone had purposely hurt me since my father went away, and it’s terribly humiliating to admit this, but I cried. I couldn’t help it. And once I’d done that, I was afraid of him, and he knew I was afraid of him. In my experience, there’s a certain kind of person that gets something out of being feared, and even though I know you never saw him that way, for me, Marcus Flint was always that kind of person. _

_ Flint and his friends kept pushing me around, and started hexing me, and I quickly realised things were only going to get worse and worse if I didn’t stand up for myself, so I started to, even though I was still quite fearful of them. When I was small, my magic used to come out sometimes as sort of a shield, that stopped some of my father’s spells from hitting me, so once I read about Shield Charms in a book I found in the common room, I taught myself how to cast one. I got very good at it, and I  _ als _ o figured out the one thing that would deflate Flint a bit, make him feel a bit less powerful in front of his friends: I started pulling him up on getting the wrong answers in class, and getting poor marks. I think that’s when he started to really hate me, when I finally gave him back a bit of his own. _

_ Still, even with all of that, things were more or less the best they’d ever been for me. I had friends, in my roommates, even if I couldn’t talk to them about certain things, and I wasn’t afraid to go home, anymore. _

_ I first noticed you on the same day everyone else did, the first day of term of your first year. Professor McGonagall called out for someone with the surname Snape, and everyone started whispering and trying to get a look at you. It’s difficult to imagine professors having families sometimes, and that was truer about Professor Snape than about anyone else, I think. I remember thinking that you looked so scared, and it seemed strange because with a professor for a father, I thought you’d know exactly what to expect. You froze, when Professor McGonagall went to put the hat on you, and then you flinched, I think when it spoke to you. Without really knowing why, I found myself hoping the hat would put you in Ravenclaw, but of course it didn’t; Sorting nearly always runs in families, and your father was Head of Slytherin, after all. _

_ People were curious about you, because of your father. I wasn’t the only one that would steal glances at you, from time to time, but I think I was the only one who noticed certain things, things I told you about before; things I could guess the reason for. I was already a little bit afraid of Professor Snape, and at first, perhaps because of my own experience, I was sure that he was the reason you were the way you were. I feared him even more then, but I also felt bad for you. I decided I should find a way to tell you, in case you didn’t know, that he wasn’t allowed to hurt you, that you could report him for doing so. It sounds stupid, I suppose, but no one ever told me that, and I often wondered how much sooner I would have asked for help if they had. _

_ I started keeping an eye out for you, in the corridors between classes and in the Great Hall, and it didn’t take me very long to figure out two things: firstly, that you spent nearly as much time in the library as I did, and secondly, that your father wasn’t the one hurting you. I only had to see you together a couple of times to see that he cared for you very much, and that whoever you were afraid of, it wasn’t him. Of course, by then, I had already been trying to work out how to tell you. I’d already imagined talking to you, telling you what I had been through so that you’d know you could trust me. _

_ I kept going to the library when I knew you’d be there, even though I didn’t have a reason to try and talk to you anymore. I suppose it was also an excuse to hide, and to avoid the fear that had been growing since the first day of term, since I’d realised that the end of my father’s sentence was approaching. I started researching protective runes, in preparation for that day, and one that I kept coming across was  _ Colibri,  _ for hummingbird. Book after book told me that the rune represented strength and resilience, and that, symbolically, the hummingbird was a very fierce protector. I thought it was silly; after all, how could something so small and delicate-looking ever be described as ‘fierce?’ _

_ On February 13th, in my second year, my father was released. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I went through my classes the next day more or less in a daze. Automatically, at the end of the day, I went to the library instead of my common room; my old instinct not to go home had kicked in, even though it wasn’t very logical, given the circumstances. You were there, again, head bent over a book, writing notes. I don’t know why, but I peeked to see what you were working on, and you were researching runes. It felt like a sign; I decided to talk to you. I sat down at the next table, trying to decide what I should say, but I was nervous. I guess I waited too long; other people came into the library, and two other Slytherin girls went to a bookshelf right near your table. One of them, Olivia Avril, already had a reputation for being something of a bully. I started gathering my things to leave: there was no way I was going to try to talk to you in front of them. _

_ They didn’t notice me, but they noticed you. They started saying awful things, loud enough for you to hear. Things about your hair, and your clothes; the sorts of things cruel girls always say about other girls they don’t like. Then one of them —  I think it was Portia MacNair — said they should hex you. You leapt right up, with your wand in your hand, and this look in your eye that just said you’d had enough from these girls, and you weren’t going to take anymore. They were both much bigger than you, even though you were all first years, but when you stood up, it didn’t matter how small you were. All you said was, “Go ahead and try; I’ll be faster,” but all of a sudden I understood exactly how something as little as a hummingbird could be strong, and fierce. _

_ That was how I got started with the rune. I began drawing it, when I was nervous, and when I woke up in the night, convinced my father was coming after me. At first, it was just for protection, but as I had more and more nightmares and no one I could talk to about them, I started trying to imagine that I  _ had _ approached you in the library that day, that we were friends. I supposed I liked the idea of being friends with someone who had been hurt, just like I had, but who wasn’t going to let anyone do it again. I imagined telling you that my father was coming for me, and I imagined you telling me how to stand up to him. _

_ After that, things were basically exactly the way I’ve told them to you, before; I knew I wanted to be your friend. I tried to approach you a few times, over the years, but you were never receptive. Then, I saw your Charms notes, and I decided to try harder. We got put on the same Prefect patrol, and just like before, I thought it was some kind of sign. I’d let myself be scared away the last time I thought so, and I didn’t want to make that mistake again. I knew you were friends with Amelia, so one day I finally asked her why you hated me, and she just laughed and said ‘That’s how Calista is with everyone at first’. That made me a little braver, and then, finally, we had that conversation in the library during our Prefect patrol, and just like that, we were friends. _

_ You also asked me, earlier (actually, it’s past midnight now, so I suppose it was yesterday at this point)  if I was after you while you were dating Flint, and even though that question is a little murkier than the rune question, I’m going to answer that, as well. _

_ I didn’t really notice you as a ‘girl’ until a little later on, as funny as that sounds. Sometime in my third year, I realised I was seeing girls in a different way. I noticed what they looked like, and I noticed a few of them made me nervous in a decidedly new way. I always thought you were pretty, but at first, you were my protective rune, my fierce hummingbird friend — even though that was only in my mind — and for some reason, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to think of you in that way — in the way I was starting to think of ‘girls’. Whenever I started to, I tried very hard not to. Being an Occlumens helped with that. _

_ It got easier, to be honest, when I heard you were going out with Flint. Eventually, I realised that he didn’t act the same way around other Slytherins, and especially around you, that he did to me, but until then I wondered if I’d misjudged you. It was mostly your notes, like I said, that convinced me I’d been right all along in thinking we should be friends. _

_ In the interest of adhering to complete honesty, I should probably also tell you the reason I decided to sneak a look at your notes, during Charms tutoring. My first year as a Prefect, I found Daisy Spratt somewhere on the third floor, completely lost and about five minutes from curfew. I walked her back to her common room, and because I knew she was in your House and I’d seen you talking to her a few times, I couldn’t resist asking her what you were like. She told me you were the nicest girl in your whole House, and that you were teaching her how to stand up to some girls who were giving her a hard time. That sounded so much like the girl I’d imagined talking to, all those years back, that I couldn’t help but be intrigued all over again. _

_ Once we were friends — real friends, and not just in my head — I realised that in a way, I  _ had _ been wrong about you, all along. You were a hundred times the girl I’d hoped you would be; you were funny, and sweet, and loyal, and compassionate, and clever, and brave, and the fact that you were also sometimes moody and defensive and private only made you seem even more wonderful, because it made you relatable, especially to someone like me. All of the unpleasant things I felt, because of what happened to me — they seemed more valid, because you had gone through a similar thing, and you felt them, too. _

_ I realise I’m dancing around the question of whether I had romantic feelings for you, when you were dating Flint, so here is my answer: yes, and no. That is, it was almost exactly like it had been, when I’d first started noticing girls: I did feel that way about you, but I tried very hard not to. Whatever I felt — and I wasn’t sure myself, most days — I definitely never had any intention of trying to steal you away from Flint; partly due to a desire for self-preservation, and partly because, for inexplicable reasons, you seemed somewhat happy with him, at least until the last few months before you ended things. _

_ There was one day that I knew I couldn’t lie to myself anymore; one day that I finally admitted I hadn’t noticed any other girl besides you for quite some time, and that I wanted to be with you, and it was after you and Flint were done. _

_ It was the day of the Dueling Club. I had finally told you about my father, about what he had done to me. I was standing next to you, trying to pretend that I didn’t notice how pretty you looked or how nice you smelled, and Flint was giving me a pretty good distraction, looking like he wanted to murder me. Still, I was a bit pleased when Lockhart paired me with him; I knew that we weren’t first years anymore; I was the better duelist now, and here I finally had the chance to show him up, hopefully once and for all. _

_ You know what happened; I wasn’t ready for him to punch me, probably because I was too busy checking to see if you’d noticed how well I did and telling myself that wasn’t what I was doing at all. I was mortified, when he hit me, because I knew you’d definitely seen  _ that _ , and for a second, I wanted nothing more than I wanted to disappear; but  _ only _ for a second, because then you leapt into action. You cast that Freezing Charm of yours, and then you put yourself between us, and you stood up to him just the same way you’d stood up to those two Slytherin girls, years before. In that moment, you were my protective rune, my  _ Colibri.

_ I could tell you a hundred more things that have passed between us that meant something important to me, but I expect by now, I’ve either made my point or I’ve lost your attention completely, and this letter is already far too long. Besides, I’ve answered both questions that you asked me, probably with far more detail than you ever expected or wanted. _

_ I hoped writing all of this would make me feel better, but I’m still nervous and uncertain, and, I think, still a bit cross. I suppose it’s because we’ve never argued, before. I suppose it’s also because I keep wondering what Flint’s motivation was in telling you what he did, after so much time, and while I’m on the subject, I’m trying and failing not to wonder why you believed him, after he’s already lied to you about me, before. _

_ I still miss you already, even though we didn’t part well. _

_ Most sincerely yours, _

_ Gerald C. Boot _

By the time Calista had finished reading the letter, her coffee had gone cold, and a lump had appeared in her throat. She scowled at Gerald’s letter, because it was so honest and so  _ sweet _ that she could no longer pretend, even to herself, that he’d done anything wrong. Her father was right, and Amelia had been right.

She  _ had _ meant to push him away yesterday, of course; and now, she was starting to wish that she could do yesterday all over again, that she could just tell him about the goddamn dream and why it was bothering her so much. She wished she’d never brought up what Marcus and Terry had planted in her mind, until she reflected that, if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have received this particular letter.

She stood up, and rinsed out her mug, and brewed another pot of coffee. She read his letter three more times, while she went through two more mugs of coffee, and then she went to her dormitory, and fetched some things she’d stashed at the bottom of her wardrobe, nearly a week ago.

She spread her coloured pencils out across her father’s kitchen table, and withdrew from one of her textbooks the half-finished project she’d been working on for Gerald’s Christmas present, There were some things she wanted to add to it; and there were some things she needed to work out, in her mind, before she could answer Gerald’s letter.

Gerald’s owl, Uruz, would surely be gone by now, she knew; even the most patient of owls would rarely wait longer than an hour or so for a reply for its master, even if they’d been instructed to. She would have to send her response with Lucerne, which was no hardship, it was just…

She hoped Gerald wasn’t too discouraged, when Uruz returned without a response. She felt a little sorry for the old owl, too, and hoped it wasn’t too cold outside or in the Owlery, when he’d been waiting. She would have to make sure she gave him extra mice, the next time he came.

After a few hours, Severus came back up from his workroom, and entered the kitchen with deft footsteps and a swirl of his cloak; he went straight to the basin, and turned the tap, washing his hands thoroughly. Calista tucked her project into the front cover of her book, and pushed her pencils to the side. She stood up, and went over to the coffeepot.

“I saved you enough for another cup,” she said, lifting it by the handle. She watched him scrubbing and twisting his fingers together under the stream of steaming water. Whatever he’d been working with, it was likely poisonous, or unstable, or both, for him to be so thorough in ridding traces of it from his skin.

“No, thank you,” he said, continuing to scrub. Calista sniffed, experimentally, from beside him, and her nose immediately wrinkled; it was powerfully acrid, whatever it was.

“Ugh, what were you making? You smell like — aconite, or something.”

“If you can still smell it on me, then I must have spilled more than I realised, when I was bottling. I ought to send these robes to be cleaned, in case it splashed on them.”

“It is aconite, then?” she questioned, over the running tap, “I should have known… one argument with my boyfriend, and you’ve got to rush off and brew a poison.”

He turned the tap off, at last, and Calista drew her wand, so he wouldn’t have to go fishing about for his with wet hands, and summoned a jet of warm air, for him to dry with.

“Thank you,” Severus said, and then, “Aconite can be used in non-poisonous potions, too, you know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s used in the antidote to the Draught of Living Death; you didn’t dose me with that last night, did you? Is that why I slept so soundly, for so long?”

Severus sneered. “If I’d dosed you with that, you’d still be sleeping come New Year’s.”

“Well, hence the antidote.” She smirked. “Admit it, though, you were brewing a poison; maybe it wasn’t for Gerald. Maybe it was for Marcus.”

“As tempted as I am by the latter prospect; no, I was not. Do you have any other guesses?”

There was a curious sort of intensity in his gaze, now. Calista slipped her wand back in her pocket, and considered. “Well, it’s in Wolfsbane potion, obviously; but there’s no reason you’d be making that.”

Severus made a funny noise in his throat, and his eyes flashed. Calista rolled her eyes. “All right, I know that was a stupid guess, but I can’t think of any others. Can’t you just tell me what it was?”

“No,” he snapped, impatiently, “I can’t _tell_ _you_ , and _technically_ , I couldn’t confirm even if you’d already guessed right...”

Her brows shot up. “ _ Did _ you dose me with a sleeping potion?”

Severus scowled. “ _ No _ . I wouldn’t, without telling you.”

“All right, forget I asked. I was just making conversation. Try and remember this the next time you accuse  _ me _ of being flippant and moody; I learned from the best.”

Since he wasn’t going to take the last cup of coffee, she poured it for herself. Her father was still watching her, with a decidedly put-out expression on his face.

“ _ Do  _ you want this, after all?” she asked, waving it under his nose.

“No.”

“Then please stop looking at me like that.” She carried the mug back to the table, and took up her regular seat again.

Severus sighed. “Ravenclaw, indeed,” he muttered, under his breath; Calista glared.

“Seriously? You’re still angry about that? I  _ said _ I was glad I’m Slytherin.”

“That’s not…” he shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“That was my plan.”

“Don’t be flippant,” he said, almost petulantly.

“Don’t be moody,” she countered, in precisely the same tone.

He frowned. “I have to deliver something,” he said, “I won’t be gone long; it’s only on the first floor. We’ll eat dinner when I get back, so clear your things from the table while I’m gone; unless you insist on accompanying me, of course. I suppose I couldn’t rightly refuse, if you did.”

“I just ate two sandwiches a few hours ago; I’m really not hungry yet, but I suppose you’re just going to scowl at me for saying that —”

Severus scowled. “Clear the table,” he said,and then he swept away; she heard him go back down his workroom. Either he still had some cleaning up to do, or whatever he had to deliver was down there.

By the time Severus had come back up, and returned from making his delivery, Calista had cleared her things and put them on top of the dresser in her tiny bedroom, and she’d also set the table with plates and silverware from the cupboards, as a sort of peace offering.

They ate, in a fairly companionable silence. Then, as Calista stood to go and get her things again, Severus cleared his throat.

“It occurs to me that you’ve missed a great deal of lessons with me lately; including today’s.”

She paused. “I guess that’s true.”

“I thought we might practise this evening, since you’ll be at your Aunt Narcissa’s for nearly two weeks, after that.”

Calista blinked. “ _ Two  _ weeks? You mean I’m not coming home, after Christmas?  _ You’re _ not coming home?”

“I told you, I have things here that require my attention.”

_ I require your attention _ , she thought, but didn’t say; after all, she  _ was _ seventeen. What did she think was going to happen next year, once she had graduated?

“I assumed you’d relish the opportunity to pay more visits to your friends,” he added, as if trying to soften the blow, “Or perhaps your older cousin, after all, so long as her mother is home, though I recommend telling Lucius and Narcissa you’re visiting someone else. You’ll call  _ me _ on the fire and let me know where you’re really going, of course.”

“It’s still kind of strange to visit with Andromeda,” Calista admitted; it was the reason why she had turned down most of Tonks’ invitations to visit, in the past. “I still keep thinking — from the corner of my eye…”

Severus nodded; she noticed he didn’t bring up her lessons, again.

“Dad?” Calista asked, after a moment had passed, “Can I… can I ask you something?”

“Go on.”

“What made you lose your Patronus?”

He started; whatever he had expected her to ask, evidently, it wasn’t that.

He considered her wordlessly for a few moments; then he shook his head. “Another time,” he said, quietly.

“It’s just…” Calista took a step towards him. “I couldn’t help but do the math…”

Severus stiffened visibly; his eyes darkened, a ward against whatever she was going to say.

“Weren’t you around twenty-one when… when you met me?”

Inexplicably, Severus’ shoulders relaxed, and his eyes softened. “It had nothing to do with you, Calista.” She must not have looked convinced, because he added, “I was twenty-two, when I took you home.”

Calista swallowed, but it did nothing to dissolve the sudden lump in her throat. It was the way he had said ‘home’, like he’d only been bringing her back where she’d belonged all along. She rubbed her hand briefly over her face, brushing an imaginary hair or speck of dust away.

“You should pack your things,” he said quietly, after a minute had passed, “We’ll go to your aunt and uncle’s house in the morning. I’ll visit for a little while when I drop you off, and I’ll visit again on Christmas Day.”

There was no point in arguing, in asking him again if they could go home again, instead. She nodded. “All right.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Most of the clothes that actually fit her were in her dormitory, and so was her trunk. She went to her room, feeling simultaneously relieved and haunted by the emptiness of both the common room and her dormitory room.

It was mindless work, packing her trunk, and it allowed Calista’s mind to wander. There were certain things that she still wasn’t ready to think about, even after her conversation with her father last night; but then, there were obviously things  _ he _ wasn’t ready to think about, either.

He wouldn’t say how he had lost his Patronus, at least not today. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was related to the vivid red pattern on the inside of his forearm. He knew how  _ she  _ had come by the Mark on her own skin, but she was still afraid to ask how he had gotten his.

She knew abstractly, of course, that the Dark Lord had placed it there, but she also knew that a true Mark had to be earned. Her mother had done enough to please the Dark Lord to earn her own Mark a thousand times over; what if she one day had to face the knowledge that her father had done the same?

Whatever he had done, Calista supposed he was living proof that people could change…

Unbidden, part of her her exchange with Gerald the previous afternoon began to surface, and she allowed it, because even that was a preferable train of thought to the one she’d been following.

_ This is just the way I am _ , she’d told him.

Even over the biting wind, she’d heard the resigned sadness in his reply:  _ I know. _

_ I wish I could stop. _

_ You can. _

Calista shook her head, and stuffed the dress she was holding haphazardly into her trunk. It wasn’t as easy as he seemed to think, even  _ if  _ his letter made her realise that he had found the courage to change, himself.

The problem was, she reflected, as she piled her favourite books into her trunk to take with her, that she could face all of the horrors, and all of the fears she had, and  _ still _ — there would be one that would never go away.

She had already learned to keep her mother out of her mind; she had already learned to accept her father’s love and protection, and she had already learned how to have a good friend, and how to be one. She had learned how to lead by example, and how — and  _ when  _ — to stand up for herself.

She was learning, still, when to ask for help. She was trying to learn when to be honest with people she cared for, and when to trust them with her secrets.

The problem was that she could learn all of that, but there was nothing she could learn that would remove the scars from her back; she imagined them pulsing, a vivid red brand, and the memory started to bubble up, again…

She stood, slamming the lid of her trunk closed suddenly, and at the same time, she slammed the door, for now, on that particular memory.

If she couldn’t get rid of them, then — what? She was supposed to find meaning, purpose, like her father and Professor Lupin had said? It was madness; what purpose could there possibly be in having been hurt, and tortured, humiliated and scarred, at her mother’s hands?

Yellow stretched and meowed from his customary spot on Calista’s pillow, and Calista stuck her hand out towards the cat, ignoring the trembling of her fingers as she reached out to pet him.

It was no use thinking like this; she would only ensure herself more sleepless nights, and more pain.

“You might as well come with me,” she said quietly to the cat, “That way I won’t have to come looking for you in the morning…”

She grabbed Yellow’s cage from beside her wardrobe and ushered her cat into it with only a hiss of disdain and a small scratch on her hand.

She decided she’d better go get Lucerne, too, and latch her into her cage before she went out to hunt in the morning; unlike every other owl Calista had ever met, Lucerne tended to hunt during the earliest daylight hours, instead of at night.

Since Lucerne was technically, at least as far as the school knew, Severus’ owl, Calista kept her cage in his quarters. She waved her wand at her trunk and lifted Yellow’s cage — the cat hated being levitated and would howl shrilly — and brought her things along the dark, quiet dungeon corridors, setting her trunk down on the floor of his office.

She opened the door that divided his office from his quarters, and went in, swapping Yellow’s cage for Lucerne’s. She unlatched Yellow’s, and the cat promptly ran down the corridor and into Calista’s bedroom there. Calista rolled her eyes; no doubt she’d need to negotiate with Yellow for pillow space, later.

She carried Lucerne’s empty cage up to the Owlery; it really was eerie, traversing the corridors with so few people in the castle. It seemed to Calista that more students had gone home for Christmas this year than any year she’d been at Hogwarts, before. With a shiver, she couldn’t help but think that the dementors’ presence had something to do with it.

A three-quarters moon hung high and bright in the sky, sending a shaft of silver light through the Owlery’s highest window. Calista stepped across it, tilting her head back to look up in the rafters above for her owl. A sudden movement startled her briefly, followed by a low cooing sound, and then an owl came sailing down from the rafters towards her — but it wasn’t Lucerne.

“ _ Uruz? _ ” Calista said, disbelieving. She put her arm out, and the old grey owl landed on it, and cooed again. “What are you still doing here? Even if Gerald asked you to wait, you should’ve gone home hours ago…”

Uruz ruffled his feathers a bit ungainly, and poked his beak into her hair, nipping the air somewhere near her ear. She let out a soft chuckle. “All right, you’re hungry, I take it. The hunting’s not so good around all these younger, faster owls, is it?”

She set Lucerne’s cage down carefully, and shifted her arm. Obediently, Uruz fluttered off of it and down to the floor. Calista drew her wand; she still hadn’t learned enough Transfiguration to conjure a mouse, but she imagined there were some in the owlery, hiding in a corner or under a scrap of straw.

“ _ Accio mouse _ ,” she said, holding her other hand out; as she’d expected, a squirming, squeaking thing zoomed through the air and landed in her open palm with a soft, muffled impact.

She waved her wand in a motion that was second nature, by now, and the mouse fell immediately still. She could not yet manage her wandless Freezing Charm non-verbally, but she’d mastered the traditional version weeks ago; even cast silently, it still held for an unusually long time.

She set the mouse down in front of Uruz, and, predictably, he fussed and shuffled a bit before snapping it up in its beak.

“You’re too slow,” she commented, “It’s lucky you’re  _ someone’s _ owl, or you’d be a starving owl. You’d never make it in the wild.”

A shadow crossed the beam of moonlight then, and in flew Lucerne, through the open window. She was carrying a piece of mail. Calista took it from her leg and opened it quickly, recognising the handwriting on the front. She moved into the path of the moonlight to read it.

It was quite short, especially compared to the last one — 

_ Calista, _

_ Have you seen Uruz? I sent him with a letter for you very early in the morning, and he hasn’t returned (it’s nine o’clock at night now). I’m worried he may have come into trouble or gotten too worn out to go on. It’s lucky Lucerne showed up, or I was going to borrow an owl from the post office in the morning to try and track him down. _

_ Please tell me if you’ve seen him. _

_ Yours, _

_ Gerald _

Calista frowned, and crouched down, examining Uruz carefully. It  _ was _ odd, that he was still here, especially now that it sounded as if Gerald had not asked him to wait for a response. She tried to see if he was injured, but she wasn’t really an expert on owl anatomy; then, Uruz cooed again, and hopped across the stone floor, towards her.

“What are you looking for, another mouse?” she murmured, “I don’t know if there are any more, but I can check…” She drew her wand, but Uruz didn’t seem concerned with that. He poked his grey, feathered head towards her again, and it got stuck, briefly, in the pocket of her robes.

“Hey! Get out of there — what are you —” Uruz popped his head back out; he had a quill held in his beak now, one of hers that he’d undoubtedly lifted from her pocket. He held it, and blinked at her.

“Give me that back,” she muttered, snatching it carefully from his beak. The owl cooed again, and held his leg out.

Calista blinked. Was Uruz demanding that she send him home with a letter? But that was absurd, she didn’t  _ always _ reply to Gerald immediately, and anyway, he might very well be injured; she should rightly have him looked at by someone that knew what they were doing before sending him out into the night…

Uruz ruffled his feathers again, and stared at her, eyes unblinking and almost baleful. He lifted his leg, again.

“You  _ are _ trying to tell me to write him back, aren’t you?”

Uruz cooed.

It was certainly unusual behaviour, for an owl, but then… Calista remembered another time, when Uruz had behaved unusually, and Calista had been  _ certain _ he’d known what he was doing. She’d been with Marcus, here in the Owlery, and he’d been getting — well, he’d just put his hands somewhere that had made Calista feel very uncomfortable, and then Uruz had come swooping in, and had put an end to that, by dropping a very insulting ‘present’ on Marcus’ head.

“All right,” Calista muttered; she felt a twinge of annoyance, mostly because it seemed absurd to be here, in the middle of the night, arguing with an  _ owl _ . “I’ll write him now — but I’m sending Lucerne along too, in case there  _ is _ something wrong with you.”

Calista found a ledge along the wall lean on to write. She dug in her pockets, but though she had the quill Uruz had found, she didn’t have any spare parchment with her. Her questing fingers found the letter from Gerald that she’d been carrying around, the one with the protective runes along the bottom; she wasn’t willing to give that up. She took the shorter letter he’d sent with Lucerne instead, and turned it over to write on the back, crossing out the place where he’d written her name. She’d have to write around it.

It was difficult writing; the ledge she’d found to lean on was awkwardly low, and received only a thin, weak portion of the streaming moonlight, and the parchment was small, with her crossed-off name upside-down right in the middle of it, but none of that was what made it difficult.

_ Dear Gerald, _

_ Uruz is here in the Owlery, and it seems he’s been here all day. I don’t think anything is wrong with him, but I’m sending Lucerne to fly with him, just in case. He’s very insistent that I write back to you, now. I still have a lot of thoughts racing through my mind, and a lot of things I wanted to take longer, to think about how to say them, and I planned on writing you in a day or two when I’ve had time to think, but I’ve never seen an owl so persistent, so I suppose now will have to do. _

_ I’ll start with the easiest thing to say, and that’s that I’m sorry. I don’t think that I ever really did believe Marcus; it was more something someone else said. It doesn’t really matter, though, because you were right. I brought it up, and started that argument, because I panicked and I felt like I had to push you away. I do that; I hate that I do it, but I do. It’s like I collect things in the back of my mind, that I can latch on to if I start to fear that someone is getting too close to a particular truth. Or, I suppose, to me. I’ve done it to my Dad a hundred times, and I think it took him a lot longer than it took you to figure out that’s what I was doing. _

_ So, no, I didn’t really need all of your explanation, but I’m glad you’ve given it, anyway. Your entire letter, even though you’re cross with me and I don’t blame you, was so honest and sweet that it’s part of why I didn’t want to respond right away — it requires a response better than whatever I can scrawl on the back of a sheet of parchment in the Owlery at whatever hour this is; and yet, it probably doesn’t matter how much time I took, I could never write or say things as beautifully as you do. _

_ I’m running out of space, so I’ll just say the most important parts, now. You shouldn’t be embarrassed or nervous about anything you wrote; like you said, knowing that you’ve felt the same way I have only makes you more relatable, and during the parts of your story where you saw so much strength and courage in me, I felt like I had neither of those things. I still feel that way, more often than not. Maybe that’s what makes us so good together, that we can see see the best in each other even when we’re blinded to it ourselves… or maybe it’s just that we both feel most at home surrounded by books, and always turn to the index first. I don’t know. _

_ What I do know is that, whatever the reasons are, it’s true. We’re good together, or at least, I’m better with you. I wish I could promise I’ll stop pushing you away, but I know I won’t, at least not overnight. All I can promise is that I will try, even though I’m afraid. For what it’s worth, no one else has ever made me want to try, before. _

_ One more thing - I think I just realised why Marcus made that up, about you. He said something else that upset me first, and I told him I’d choose you over him a hundred times over if I could. I lied, though, I’d do it a thousand times. _

She had crammed the last bit into the space where she ought to have put her signature, and there was no place for it.

She folded the parchment up, inside out from the way it had come. She found that, if she folded it under itself a certain way, there was room to address it properly on the outside, around the words he’d written. A tiny smile found its way to her face, as she had an idea.

_ À mon adorable hibou _ , she wrote; she had no idea if the grammar was correct, without her little French dictionary, but she supposed he’d get the point. She added, in place of her signature,  _ De ton colibri, toujours. _

She stood up, before she could change her mind about sending all of that; Uruz came flapping over dutifully, and she tied the letter to his leg; he cooed a final time, and nipped at her hair again, before ascending to the higher window, to leave.

“Follow him, Lucerne,” she bid her own owl, gesturing up. “Make sure he gets there safely.”

She  _ would _ have to make a trip up here now, in the morning, after all, or else Lucerne would have to meet her at her aunt and uncle’s house. Still; if her letter at all put him at ease or made him smile, she supposed it was worth it.

Then, finally, Calista left the Owlery, still with Lucerne’s empty cage, and traced her way back to the familiar dungeon flat that had become her first real home. Her father was already in bed when she returned.

She shifted Yellow off her pillow in the dark, and tucked a certain pair of warm blue gloves underneath it; just in case. Perhaps it was good that she’d forgotten to send them back.


	12. Chapter 12

Lucerne returned early in the morning; when Calista went up to the Owlery after breakfast, her owl was waiting, with a letter attached to her leg.

Calista removed the letter, and felt her heart leap — it was addressed on the front with a familiar rune:  _ Colibri _ .

She opened the letter immediately, even though she had been bidden only to come up and fetch her owl, so she and her father could depart for the Malfoys’.

_ Mon beau colibri, _

_ I can’t imagine what got into Uruz’s head for him to behave as he did yesterday, but I can’t say I’m disappointed in him; it was such a relief, not only to see him return well, but to see him return with a letter from you. As soon as I saw how you’d addressed it, I couldn’t help but smile, and even before I read any of what you’d written inside, I realised I wasn’t cross with you anymore. _

_ I can’t ask any more of you than what you’ve promised, and I would like to offer you a promise in return: I promise that I will do everything within my power to be as worthy as I can of the privilege of being close to you; of being trusted by you; of being chosen by you, as you said, a thousand times over. _

_ I have the urge, stronger than ever, to break my word and send you verse. I had no idea, when you made me promise not to, how difficult it would be to refrain (ha). Are you certain you won’t reconsider? _

_ I can hardly wait to see you again. Can you make it for dinner on Boxing Day? The bookstore is closed, so I have the whole day off; the best gift I could ask for is to spend it with you. I think Chadwick and Mira will be able to come for dinner as well, and I’d like you to meet them.  _

_ I hope I’ll hear from you again before the holiday, but if not, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas with your family, and most of all, I hope I get to see you soon after. _

_ Tu tiens mon coeur toujours, _

_ Gerald C. Boot _

Calista felt herself blush, and her spirits lift simultaneously. She even felt good-willed enough not to scowl at his corny French:  _You have my heart, always._  She folded the letter carefully, placing it in her pocket, with the older one she still kept, with the runes along the bottom, and then she ushered Lucerne into her cage and latched it. She hurried out of the Owlery, and hoped her father wasn’t waiting  _ too  _ impatiently for her.

As it turned out, he was; he was in his office, with her packed trunk and Yellow’s cage at his feet, and the toe of his black shoe was tapping against the stone floor.

“We’re late,” he said, as soon as she’d twisted the knob at his office door, before she’d even pushed it all the way open and stepped through.

“Sorry,” she managed, “I was — erm, Lucerne was — well, anyway, she’s back, now. I’m ready to go.”

Severus lifted a brow, and then Vanished her trunk. “I’ll take the owl,” he said, reaching for it, “You take the bloody cat.”

They swapped cages, and then they departed, tracing a familiar path from the dungeons to the Entrance Hall.

Calista tried not to think about the fact that they’d have to walk past the dementors, to get to a spot where they could Apparate. She focused on the words of Gerald’s latest letter, instead.

_ I promise that I will do everything within my power to be as worthy as I can of the privilege of being close to you; of being trusted by you; of being chosen by you… _

Who even spoke like that, or wrote like that? Certainly no other teenager that Calista knew… but it  _ did _ sound so utterly and completely  _ Gerald _ , after all. She imagined him saying the words to her out loud, and it was almost too much to bear. She fingered the letter in her pocket with her free hand, and wondered if he’d kiss her hand while he said it.

“I gather from your expression, and from the way your hand keeps going to your pocket, that you and Mr. Boot have reconciled — likely by a letter you’ve just received this morning?” her father said, shrewdly, interrupting her thoughts. She flushed, and drew her hand out of her pocket.

“I gather you’re still nosy,” she mumbled; it was a weak comeback, but she was still a little flustered, and she  had only had time for a single cup of coffee, before she’d gone up to find Lucerne.

“Ah, so I  _ have _ correctly guessed the reason for your tardiness this morning. It’s nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

She glanced at him with a half-hearted scowl; her father’s mouth twisted into a small, crooked sort of half-smile.

“Neither has Boot, I see; your face is still as red as a fire salamander’s scales.”

“ _ Dad _ ,” Calista groaned. “If you’re trying to make sure I’m in a hurry for you to leave again this evening, it’s working.”

They reached the front door; Calista pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, for reasons that had little to do with the chill of the outside air; even at this distance, she could make out the gloomy, hooded figures by the castle gate.

Severus must have sensed her tension, or perhaps he, too, noticed the figures; his demeanour shifted, and he drew his wand.

The figures were drifting away, as they approached the gate; Calista almost thought they’d make it cleanly away without being inspected, but then — as if the creatures had sensed them, they swooped in, swift and sudden, four or more of them —

A dark, twisting voice filtered its way into her consciousness, as if from a great distance, or from underwater.

_ ‘Stupid, useless girl — I’ll  _ make  _ you obey.’ _

Calista’s skin ran furiously cold; dimly, she felt something slide along her fingers, and there was a soft thud — but closer, so much closer…

_ ‘Hurt the filth,’ her mother’s voice urges, close in her ear. ‘You know the incantation. He deserves the pain.’ She feels her fingers, small and thin, enveloped in longer, colder ones. She feels the smooth grain of the wood beneath her fingers. Then she hears the word that makes her blood freeze, like the rest of her. Like ice — ‘Imperio.’ _

_ The rush of power doesn’t come, even though she tries — she has no choice but to try — and now Mother will know, Mother will punish — _

_ ‘Mama, no — bad, no —’ she tries to protest, but her mouth is too cold and stiff to form words properly —  _

“Calista!”

Suddenly, the only hands that gripped her were impossibly warm, or she was impossibly cold; and they held onto her shoulders, not onto her wrist, not pressing her fingers against a wand.

“It’s all right, I’ve driven them off — Calista, listen to me!”

It was her father’s voice, penetrating the fog of the vision, of the horrible memory… her mother, and the sight of the broken, twisted Muggle laying on the ground were fading, but the cold was not; she felt herself shivering uncontrollably, despite the warm hands that gripped her.

She heard her father curse, and felt his arms come around her; then, she thought she was being moved, or perhaps it was still the dizziness. Gods, she was  _ so cold _ … and then there was the familiar  _ pop _ , the pulling and stretching and slightly nauseating feeling of being Apparated, and then,  _ finally _ , she could see properly, without the icy fog of memory invading her vision.

“D-d-dad,” she managed, through chattering teeth; she saw his eyes first, and then the rest of his face, looming in front of hers, pinched and drawn with worry.

He wrapped his arm about her shoulders, and began ushering her along a path; she realised they were in front of an entirely different gate now, the one that surrounded Malfoy Manor. She didn’t have the energy to notice much else, as he hurried her along the front path and up to the front door.

Narcissa answered it, her smile draining away and replaced with a look of concern as soon as her eyes landed upon her niece. “Severus, what’s happened? Has Calista fallen ill?”

“Dementors,” he said, grimly, as they stepped inside; she was still shivering forcefully, and her father’s arm was still supportively around her.

“Dobby, fetch — oh, curses!” her aunt snapped coldly, somewhere below and behind her; and then, smoothly, her demeanour shifted, to a warm concern, and she reached for Calista’s shoulders as well.

“There, darling, it’s all right now,” her aunt said, “You’re safe now, with your family; come sit down, and I’ll fix you some hot chocolate.”

Calista shivered again; a slippery tendril in her mind wanted to protest that  _ family _ , on its own, did nothing to imply safety, for her; but she didn’t have the strength. She slid her hands weakly into her pockets; she could feel her fingers twitching and shaking, but they did finally find the slips of paper she was searching for, in one pocket; her wand was securely in the other.

“Yellow,” she said, suddenly, realising that although she could see her owl’s cage, on the floor of the foyer, she couldn’t see her cat’s. “Dad, I must’ve d-dropped — where’s Yellow?”

Severus cursed, again, and Calista tried to resist being gathered into her aunt’s arms. “We’ve g-got to go back —”

Her teeth still would not stop chattering, and Narcissa’s grip was surprisingly strong. She tried to extract herself, tried to force words out, anyway, but she still felt  _ so cold _ , her limbs stiff and weak.

“No,” Severus said, “ _ I’ll _ go back — you stay here, and let your aunt tend to you.”

“I have to go back for him — w-what if they hurt him —”

She found herself being pushed, gently but firmly, into the Malfoys’ sitting room, and then into an overstuffed chair; then, when Narcissa retreated and returned a moment later, a mug of something steaming and deliciously sweet-smelling was pressed into her hands, and the warmth of it in her palms was wonderful enough to make her stop talking, and inhale the scent.

“Your father will fetch your cat,” Narcissa said, with finality, leaning over her chair. “You, darling, will drink every last drop of that hot chocolate; you’re not leaving this chair until you do.”

To her surprise, Calista found herself susceptible to being mothered into obedience; she dutifully drank half of it in several large sips. It helped that she was quite used to drinking extremely hot beverages quickly, when in need of her coffee fix.

The hot chocolate was like its own special breed of magic; it warmed her, from the inside out, and at last she stopped shivering. The edge of panic faded from her mind, and slowly was replaced with shame; why had she reacted so strongly  _ again _ ?

Narcissa hadn’t left the sitting room, though she had stepped briefly away to give Calista some space. She returned presently, lifting her palm to brush it lightly against Calista’s forehead.

“There, you’re much warmer now,” her aunt murmured, “Poor dear; those creatures are dreadful.”

Dimly, Calista heard voices in the hall beyond; she made out her father’s, and another male voice — she thought it was her uncle’s.

“Yellow,” Calista said, sitting up straighter, “I need to see if Dad found —”

“Shh,” her aunt said, cutting her off with a gentle push back into the chair, “You  _ need _ to finish that drink; I’ll check and see if your father’s found your cat.”

Calista leaned forward, ears perked, as soon as her aunt had left the room.

“—  won’t stand for it, and if that fool Dumbledore thinks he’s heard the last of the matter from me, he’s sorely mistaken —”

It  _ was _ her uncle; and he followed his voice into the sitting room, with her father and her aunt at his heels. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that Yellow’s cage was dangling from her father’s left hand. An aggrieved yowl escaped, and Severus snarled and paced towards her, setting the cage down by her chair.

“Calista.” Lucius stopped a few paces away from her, and studied her; though he seemed to be trying to show concern, his expression was as cool and detached as always. At least she didn’t feel him trying to read her thoughts — yet. “Your father tells me you were attacked by dementors  _ twice _ now during the course of this school term.”

She felt Severus’ hand at her shoulder; Yellow howled again, and Calista shifted her mug to one hand, lowering the fingers of the other to the front of the cage. She poked her fingers through the bars, and almost immediately she could feel Yellow’s cold, wet nose sniffing her for reassurance.

“I guess that’s true,” Calista murmured; she felt the flush of embarrassment push its way up her neck and tried to keep it out of her face.

“So, two unprovoked attacks on my niece, and my son is mangled by a rogue hippogriff, all while under Dumbledore’s supposed care,” Lucius snapped. “The governors will hear about this; were I still on the board, this would already have been dealt with, swiftly. Nevertheless, I assure you that my displeasure will be made  _ quite known _ in the appropriate circles.”

He huffed, and swallowed his ire; it was the first glimpse of real emotion that Calista could recall seeing on his face in ages. He glanced sideways, at his wife, and then back down to Calista’s chair.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as if he’d suddenly realised he was supposed to, “Narcissa has tended to you, yes?”

Calista nodded, hurriedly, and lowered her eyes to her half-full mug. “I’m fine.”

She could feel three sets of eyes on her, and it disconcerted her; quickly, she cast about for something she could say to deflect their attention, and seized on something she’d heard her aunt say, a few moments before.

“What happened to your house elf?” she asked, “I heard you start to call for it, and then… is it ill?”

Evidently, that had been the  _ wrong _ thing to say. Her uncle sneered, face darkening.

“ _ Potter  _ happened to my house-elf,” he snapped; then, he turned on his heel. “We don’t have one any longer.”

“Oh,” Calista said, still wriggling her fingers between the bars of the cage; Yellow was licking them now, apparently recovered from his own trauma of being dropped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

Her question  _ had _ , at least, managed to distract her relatives’ attention from her. Lucius had left the sitting-room in a huff, and Narcissa went to follow after him. When they were gone, her father came around to the front of her chair, to face her. He eyes her carefully; she suppressed an eyeroll at the familiar inventory.

“Dad, I’m  _ fine _ ,” she murmured. “You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Finish that,” he said, nodding towards the mug in her left hand. “You’re still a bit pale.”

“I’m  _ always _ pale,” she shot back, gloomily. “We live in a dungeon.”

She expected him to come back with a clever retort, but his mouth remained set in a grim, humourless line.

“I had no idea they affected you so severely,” he said, quietly; Calista hunched her shoulders, and fought off yet another rush of embarrassment.

“There are dementors scattered throughout the cities, looking for Black,” he continued, “Not as many, perhaps, in any one area as there are at Hogwarts — but still. I don’t want you encountering one on your own.”

“Dad.” Calista lifted her face to his, neck and shoulders stiffening in alarm. “I’m  _ fine _ , please; you said I could see my friends, over the break…”

He was on the verge of changing his mind; she could see it, plain as the furrows of concern between his brows, and bracketing his mouth.

“And so you can,” he said, “But you mustn’t go anywhere alone, not when your Patronus cannot be relied upon. You’ll call me on the fire, when you wish to go somewhere —”

“Seriously? Dad, it’s not like I’m going to be wandering around, I’m going to Apparate from the front gate right to Ger — er, right to wherever I’m going.”

True to character, Severus missed nothing; his eyes swept over her again, considering.

“I’ll offer you one compromise,” he said, “You may have Mr. Boot accompany you, instead of myself, as long as you let me know ahead of time where you’re going, and inform me once you’ve arrived there safely.”

“Why can’t I ask Aunt Narcissa to drop me off somewhere?” Of course, that didn’t  _ precisely _ solve the problem of wanting to keep her family from meeting Gerald, but perhaps she could have Gerald meet her around a corner from wherever she and her aunt Apparated...

Severus’ eyebrow lifted, and he leaned in closer, and spoke quietly.

“For the same reason Miss Slater or Mr. Weasley can’t; I won’t have you potentially crossing paths with one of the Azkaban guards without someone at your side who I know can produce a proper Patronus.”

“Aunt Narcissa can’t —?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said, shortly, just as the door to the sitting room opened again; Narcissa had returned, along with Draco.

“Dad, please,” she said quietly, “I don’t want Gerald to have to come  _ here _ —”

“Then call me on the fire,” he said, in a tone that left no room for negotiation. “And I’ll take you, if I can spare the time. Now, for the last time,  _ finish that drink _ , please.”

She scowled at him, but hastily gulped the rest of the still-warm liquid down, and set the cup down on a nearby side table.

“I’m going to bring Yellow upstairs,” she said, suddenly, because Narcissa looked distinctly like she might start fussing again. Before anyone could advise her to sit and recover any longer, she leapt up, and plucked the cat’s cage off the floor, and went swiftly out of the room, through the foyer and the main hall, and upstairs to the room she stayed in whenever they were here.

The huge bed was already made up with sumptuous fabrics, and the wardrobe doors had been left open, for her to unpack. Her school trunk was beside it, and Lucerne’s cage was on an ornate pedestal near the far window.

She set Yellow’s cage down and unlatched the door; the cat sprang out and immediately made himself comfortable on the fluffiest-looking pillow on the bed.

She  _ couldn’t _ let Gerald come here; what would he think, to see this huge, opulent manor, nestled in the sprawling grounds? Her aunt and uncle had  _ peacocks _ , for Merlin’s sake. She’d been to the flat Gerald shared with his mother and brother, and it was small and old even compared to the place she lived for the summers with her father; how spoiled would he think she was if he could see the way the rest of her family lived?

There was more to it, of course; the grounds, the house, the furnishings: everywhere, where there were signs of wealth, there were also signs of status, of — well, as her uncle would say, of  _ the old blood _ . She wasn’t proud of that side of her heritage, and she didn’t see how she could manage to convey that to Gerald if she had to pretend simultaneously, in front of her aunt and uncle, that she was.

Besides, the worst of it wasn’t about the house or any  _ perceived _ status at all; it was the way that her aunt and uncle might treat him, the things they might say… what if they brought up his father, or said something derisive about his mother, or his blood status? She couldn’t put her uncle’s letter, last year, out of her mind, even if he had grudgingly admitted, more recently, that he might be persuaded to find Gerald ‘suitable’ after all.

She slipped her fingers into her pocket, feeling the edges of parchment within, from his letters. She’d have to think how to respond, now; she had hoped to be able to see him once  _ before _ the holiday, perhaps to go to a library or a play in London, again, but that wouldn’t be possible now that she wasn’t allowed ‘to go  _ wandering _ ’, as her father had put it. 

She wasn’t particularly thrilled at the prospect of having her father drop her off and pick her up from Gerald’s house, but it would still be preferable to subjecting him to whatever might happen if he were to meet her  _ here _ , so she supposed it would have to suffice. She hoped her father would leave, swiftly, when he dropped her off, and would not arrive early to pick her up. Gerald would be understanding and kind about his dropping her off,  _ of course _ , because he was Gerald, but even so, it was terribly embarrassing to be seventeen years old, and to have to depend on her  _ father  _ to bring her anywhere. She thought crossly that she might as well not have learned to Apparate at all, if she was never allowed to do so on her own.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Her father stayed until dinnertime on Sunday, but then he’d abruptly left, citing responsibilities at the school. Still, dinner had been more or less enjoyable; once, Lucius had started to question her more closely about the dementor attacks, but Narcissa had evidently picked up on her discomfort, and changed the topic, to her most recent trip to Twillfit and Tattings; she’d never been so glad to listen to her aunt describe dresses.

Despite her fears, Calista didn’t have a nightmare that first night, or on either of the following nights. She told herself this was due to her overall exhaustion, or perhaps to her plans to begin learning to resist the Imperius Curse after the Christmas break; of course, it had nothing to do with the pair of warm, blue gloves that she’d been placing underneath her pillow at night; that was just a silly and superstitious precaution, and one that she covered up for by putting the gloves away in her trunk as soon as she woke in the mornings.

By Wednesday, Calista realised she had to give Gerald an answer; she decided to ask her aunt which fireplace she ought to use to call her father up. Gods knew they were innumerable in this house; without having spotted a telltale pot of Floo powder over any of the mantles to the ones she’d discovered yet, she had no idea which of them were connected to the network.

The opportunity presented itself Wednesday afternoon, when she and her cousin and her aunt were all in the sitting room, taking afternoon tea — a tradition that Calista personally found a bit stuffy, but that her aunt insisted on. At least her aunt made coffee, when Calista was over — and the biscuits she’d baked were quite good, too, even if Calista privately thought the ones Gerald had baked for her before were even better.

Draco was squinting at something in his lap; a sidelong glance told Calista it was a letter. Narcissa had evidently gathered the same thing, for she frowned with disapproval at her son.

“Draco, love, put that away and finish your tea; you may read it later.”

“I’m almost done,” he said carelessly, eyes still fixed on it. Narcissa frowned, but didn’t reprimand him again.

“Calista, darling, how is your coffee?”

“It’s fine, thank you,” Calista said, a bit stiffly; the coffee _ was _ fine, of course, but Calista was still worrying over how to make the arrangement to visit Gerald.

“Mother, can I go over to Greg’s house tomorrow?” Draco asked, finishing the letter, “Vincent’s going too.”

“Of course you may. It will give Calista and I a chance to spend some quality time together, won’t it, darling?”

This second part was directed towards Calista; but Draco smirked, and cut in.

“Oh, Calista’s invited, too. Greg made that  _ very _ clear.”

Calista scowled. “You’re not funny, Draco.”

“Not trying to be,” he said, lifting a biscuit and nibbling on it nonchalantly. “Ever since Millicent decided she liked Vincent better, Greg’s back on you. Reckons he’s going to make another go for you, maybe on Valentine’s Day.”

“You ought to advise him to rethink that,” Calista snarked, “If he sends me another of those awful poems, I can promise little mercy and the  _ direst _ of penalties —”

“See, when you were dating Marcus, I’d believe it,” Draco drawled, “But that skinny half-blood Ravenclaw? I think Greg could take him.”

“You —  _ brat _ ,” Calista sputtered, “You knew I meant  _ I  _ would — and anyway, Gerald could —”

“Children!” Narcissa scolded, standing up. “That’s enough. Draco, you may go to your friend’s house tomorrow  _ only _ if you stop goading your cousin at once. Calista, you’d do well to remember that you  _ are  _ a young lady, and there’s no need for a lady to resort to name-calling or threats.”

She resisted the urge to point out, sullenly, that Draco had started it; after all, as much as she might protest the  _ lady _ title her aunt had used, she  _ was _ seventeen, and ought to be more mature than to bicker with her thirteen-year-old cousin; especially when the bait was so predictable and obvious.

“Very well,” Calista forced herself to say, evenly, “I’m sorry. May I be excused, now? I’d like to call my father on the fire.”

“Of course, darling. Come with me, I’ll get everything ready for you.”

Calista couldn’t imagine what she meant by that; all she needed was a pinch of floo powder, and she could call him up. She followed after her aunt anyway, who led her into a small side room that Calista couldn’t recall ever having been in before. There was a fireplace, and two very comfortable-looking chairs sat facing it. Her aunt reached up to the mantle, and took down an ornate-looking urn that Calista would have supposed was merely decorative.

“We take all of our calls in here now,” her aunt said, “The other grates have all been disconnected — too many nuisance calls, people asking Lucius for favours. You understand how it is, of course, darling.”

“Erm — of course,” Calista agreed awkwardly, even though of course she didn’t. She took a pinch of powder from the urn that Narcissa held out, and tossed it on the fire. It even felt a bit different from the floo powder she was used to; finer and grittier. No doubt it was a more expensive version, for reasons Calista couldn’t begin to guess at.

“Connect me to Severus Snape’s fireplace, in his personal quarters at Hogwarts,” she commanded the flames; they rose up, swirling first violet and then green briefly, before a sort of window appeared within, showing her a flame-lit, flickering version of her father’s familiar study.

“Calista. Is everything all right?” She could see him in one of his armchairs; he was perched on the edge, as if he’d been somewhere else and had just entered the study to take her call.

“Yes. Are you coming again, before Christmas…?”

Narcissa took her leave quietly, and Calista leaned slightly forward in her own chair, mimicking her father’s posture.

“I doubt that I can; I have another batch of that potion to brew, and then I need to be here…  _ after dark _ .”

It sounded like he had stressed the last few words, or, as was more likely, the connection had gone funny for a second. It tended to happen, when the conversation happened through an open grate; still, a few connection quirks were preferable to Calista, to putting her face directly in the fire, where she was sure to inhale soot and ash when she disconnected.

“You are still coming  _ on _ Christmas, right?”

“I will be there during the day; I may not be able to stay for dinner.”

She frowned. Dinner. That reminded her of the real reason she’d been so eager to speak with him, out of Aunt Narcissa’s earshot.

“I’m invited to Gerald’s home for dinner on Boxing Day,” she said quietly, “I don’t suppose — can you accompany there and back?”

“Possibly; what time?”

“Sometime in the afternoon, I guess. I’d come home after dinner. I mean, not  _ right _ after, I wouldn’t want to seem rude…”

Severus frowned, or she thought he did; it was hard to tell, given the distance and the smallish size of the grate.

“I could likely arrange to bring you safely to London,” he said, “But I won’t be able to bring you back; you’ll need to ask Boot if he will bring you back to your aunt and uncle’s house. Let me know when you leave Mr. Boot’s home, and when you arrive back.”

Calista shook her head, quickly. “Dad, I can’t do that — they’ll want to meet him.”

“So?”

She scrambled off the chair, to crouch in front of the grate. “ _ So? _ Don’t you remember that awful letter, last year, that Uncle —”

“Enough, Calista,” her father interrupted, sharply, and then, more evenly: “I do recall the misunderstanding we all had, when your uncle was concerned that Mr. Boot might not be an appropriate match for you; but as you recall, that matter is settled now, and it’s perfectly natural for your aunt and uncle, who care about you very much, to wish to meet the young man that’s captured your attention so thoroughly.”

Calista could feel her face twisting up throughout her father’s little speech. “Have you gone mad?” she asked, shaking her head, “You sound like —”

Severus cut her off, swiftly. “If I sound like I’m busy, it’s because I am; if that’s all you need at the moment, I’ll see you in a few days’ time, at Christmas. Call again if you need me; you can record a message if I’m away.”

Calista furrowed her brow.  “Record a message? What are you talking about? And where would you  _ be _ , anyway?”

“I may be away,” he said again, almost testily; or was it the connection again? “A message, Calista. Recorded; anything you say to me through the grate if I’m away will be saved, thanks to the purple flames.”

Calista frowned; purple flames? What the  _ hell _ was he talking about — and then suddenly, her eyes widened. The purple flames that had filled the grate, before they’d gone the proper shade of green and her father’s study had appeared; the strange texture of the floo powder; and the fact that Uncle Lucius and Narcissa now took  _ all _ of their calls through this one grate. Merlin’s blood, he was trying to tell her that their conversations were being saved; perhaps even monitored.

“Oh,” Calista said, slowly; she wanted him to see that she understood, and she wanted to know precisely how alarmed he was by the situation, so she knew how alarmed  _ she _ should be. “Right. I… I forget, because we — erm, because we don’t buy that sort of floo powder very often…”

“No, we don’t,” her father agreed, “It’s prohibitively expensive, really; but I’m certain it’s quite useful for someone like your uncle, who receives so many Ministry calls _.  _ I’m certain your uncle won’t mind if you do need to use a bit of it to leave me a message; but don’t use too much, as undoubtedly it’s meant to be reserved for more… important dealings.”

She tilted her head. “Of course,” she said, “I won’t — unless it’s important —”

“I don’t mean to discourage you from contacting me,” her father said, quietly, “I only want you to be considerate.”

She nodded, again; it seemed as though he was trying to let her know that the recording powder was not  _ intended _ to capture their conversation per se, but that she should be careful what she said, nevertheless. She was glad he’d thought to remind her; she had only heard of the much rarer and much more expensive recording powder in passing, and wouldn't have remembered yhe telltale purple flames on her own.

“I’ll… I’ll ask Gerald to come and meet me, I suppose,” she said, and then: “Dad? Do you think… maybe if Gerald came in, to meet Aunt Narcissa and Uncle Lucius when he comes to pick me  _ up _ for dinner, instead of after… that way you can be here too, during the day, and… and say hello to him, too.”

Severus frowned. “You’d still need to be accompanied on the way home.”

“Yes, but that way he doesn’t have to stay late — he can just drop me off at the door and then get back home. I just — erm, don’t want him to be out too late, either, with the… the dementors.”

It was a weak excuse, since he was meant to be  _ her _ protection against them; but on the off-chance that her aunt or uncle  _ did _ replay this conversation later, she didn’t want to sound as though she was dreading the thought of them meeting Gerald, even if it  _ was  _ true.

“I suppose that can be arranged,” her father said, finally. “Ask Mr. Boot if he cares to stop over earlier — perhaps noontime? — and I’ll visit for a short while, as well.”

“All right,” she said, trying not to sound as relieved as she suddenly felt. At least with her father around, Gerald would have one other ally, if things  _ did _ take an unpleasant turn… and at least she was more likely to control her own tongue, if her father was around to remind her to. “I’ll ask him.”

Her father’s image nodded; then, he dipped his head slightly. Now that she’d gotten the message about the recorded fireplace, he didn’t seem to be in nearly as much of a hurry as he’d sounded, earlier.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

She nodded, quickly. “Yes. I’m —  _ actually _ fine.”

She stressed the word slightly, to counter the hundreds of times she’d told him she was fine when she really wasn’t. She felt his eyes looking her over, even through the grate, but the searching look wasn’t the same without the link of legilimency, and that could not be conducted through a fireplace.

“Really,” she told him, as sincerely as she could make herself sound; for once, it was more or less true, despite the recent horror of the dementor attack. It seemed distant, in the light of day… and with a certain pair of blue gloves hidden safely under her pillow.

“Very well. I’ll see you in a few days, then, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Erm — thanks.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Christmas Day itself passed in more or less of a blur, to Calista; there were endless packages, for both Draco and herself. Most of Draco’s contained gadgets and accessories for his broomstick, and most of hers contained clothing.

Aunt Narcissa had fussed that many of the clothes she’d purchased using Calista’s previous measurements might not fit properly anymore; not, for once, because she’d gotten taller, but because she’d gotten thinner. Still, as far as Calista could tell, everything fit more or less the same as expected; perhaps a few of the things Narcissa insisted she try out hung off her frame a bit more loosely than they were meant to, but that was just as well…

Except, it didn’t feel quite as well when she recalled the way that Gerald had looked at her, on Halloween weekend, when she’d worn the form-fitting top and skirt from Narcissa that had made her look as if she actually possessed a few curves, contrasted with the pinched look of concern he’d worn instead last weekend, when he, too, had speculated that she’d grown thinner. She refused to let herself dwell on that, but she did take second helpings at Christmas dinner.

Her father had not stayed long, but he  _ had _ promised to come back the next day, when Gerald was coming to meet her. He had also given her a very interesting assortment of books, and a small container of standard floo powder, in case she needed to call him again before the break was over; he advised her, quietly, to call him from the grate in her own room.

Somewhat to Calista’s disappointment, Gerald hadn’t seemed particularly phased about meeting her relatives before they went to his home to meet his. She’d almost hoped that he would recall their conversation after she’d confessed to receiving her uncle’s letter, and withstanding her aunt’s pointed questioning, and refuse; but then, she supposed she ought to have known better. After all, Gerald was the one who had petitioned the Headmaster on her behalf after she had been attacked by Quirrell, and had written letters directly to Ministry officials when the dementors had been placed at the school. She had never known him to face opposition in any way but directly.

Once their plans to meet the day after Christmas had been finalised, Calista had sent Lucerne out on one other errand, to order a particular item from one of the catalogues that Aunt Narcissa received. She’d had to pay extra for rush delivery, but it had seemed more than worth it, so far.

She received owls from several of her friends; luckily, Lucerne could deliver them directly through her bedroom window, so her aunt and uncle did not need to know about the packages from either Amelia, whom she suspected they would not approve of, or from Tonks, whom she  _ knew _ they wouldn’t approve of.

The strangest part of the holiday, however, came later in the evening, after dinner, and after Draco had gone up to his room to put his gifts away.

She’d been helping her aunt clear the table, levitating dishes from the dining room out to the kitchen in the back, when her Uncle Lucius had come into the dining room; she’d thought perhaps he was there to help, but instead, he merely stood in the corner, watching silently for several moments, until the table was bare.

“Do you want me to wash them?” Calista had asked; after all, they did not have house elves at the house in Cokeworth, and she was used to helping with things like that, when they were home for the summer. Furthermore, she couldn’t quite picture her elegant aunt doing something as mundane as washing dishes, even with magic.

“That won’t be necessary,” Uncle Lucius surprised her by saying; she nearly started. She had almost forgotten he was there, in the corner, until he spoke. “Calista, join me in the library; there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Immediately, Calista felt her stomach clench, and butterflies seemed to materialise in her gut; what could her uncle possibly want to discuss with her, in private, that he’d waited until  _ after _ her father had left to bring up?

She glanced at her aunt, who only smiled encouragingly, and nodded. “Go on, darling; I can manage from here.”

Calista followed her uncle into the library; her hands slid automatically towards where her pockets would have been, if she was wearing her school robes, but she was in one of her new dresses, and they only slid uselessly along her sides.

“Sit down,” her uncle said, gesturing to an armchair with a small side table beside it; once she obeyed, he waved his wand, and two delicate, fine-stemmed wine glasses appeared in his hand. He walked to a cupboard on the wall that Calista had always imagined held more books, or perhaps writing implements, and withdrew a stoppered glass bottle, filling both glasses slightly less than halfway with a golden-coloured liquid.

He re-stoppered and replaced the bottle, and came towards the chair he’d bid her to sit in; he held one of the glasses out to her.

“Elven wine,” he told her, quite courteously; when she didn’t move to take it, he nodded, encouragingly. “Do try it.”

She accepted the glass; it smelled slightly tangy, but mostly sweet. Her uncle took his own glass, and she expected him to settle in the armchair across from her, but instead, he positioned himself behind it, still standing. He lifted his own wineglass and took a delicate sip.

Calista lifted her glass, and pretended to take a sip at the same time he did; she took the opportunity to sniff it more carefully, but — despite what she told herself was  _ surely _ a ridiculous fear — she did not detect any scents that indicated a poison, or anything else untoward; but then, she had not received her Poisons and Antidotes Certification without knowing that many, many very dangerous potions were entirely tasteless and odorless.

“Your father tells me that you are considering your options, presently, for employment beyond Hogwarts,” Uncle Lucius said, broadly; Calista didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. She set the glass down on the side table, and met his gaze steadily, nodding.

“Yes; I’ve submitted my applications already, but I won’t hear back until after the Ministry visit next month.”

“Are you adequately prepared, do you think, for your visit?”

It struck Calista that her uncle was watching her very shrewdly, now; she focused on keeping her mind clear, and her facial expression appropriately calm. A small sign of nerves was all right, she supposed, when discussing her future career — but she knew, instinctively, not to let on that having this particular conversation with  _ him _ specifically was putting her on edge; after all, she didn’t quite know  _ why _ it was.

“I think so,” she said, with only a slight measure of hesitation. “My father says it’s usually very informal.”

“Yes.” Lucius lifted his glass again, and took a slightly longer sip; he appeared to savour the scent of it briefly, rolling it over his tongue a second, before swallowing. “Usually.”

He smiled, quite blandly. “Is the wine not to your liking, my dear? It can be — ah, an  _ acquired _ taste.”

“It — oh, it’s fine,” Calista said, slightly unnerved; she fought to keep the evidence of it out of her face. “I mean — I just don’t really drink, is all.”

“Of course not,” her uncle said, smoothly, “As is appropriate, for a young woman of your age, still attending school — but a glass or two, on a special occasion, with your family can hardly be frowned upon, now, can it?”

In truth, Calista had never tasted alcohol in her life; and that included this night, because she  _ hadn’t _ actually taken a sip. She’d only sniffed it; she hoped he couldn’t tell.

But then — she  _ did _ feel the indelicate swipe of his presence against her outermost mental barrier, and she had to suppress the sour thought that she hoped he  _ could _ tell she hadn’t really tried it, just so he’d know she wasn’t afraid to defy him.

“Oh,” she said again, fighting against all her instincts for snark to respond quite demurely, “Well, I guess it’s — like you said, an acquired taste. I suppose I’m just not used to it.”

“Perhaps in time,” her uncle said; he sounded very unconcerned, suddenly; and he drained his own glass back, emptying it. “I’ll take that, if you don’t want it; there’s no sense in wasting it.”

He set his empty glass down and held his hand out for hers, but he didn’t move from behind the chair, which meant that she had to stand up, to hand it to him. She lifted the glass, pinching the stem between her fingers, and rose, crossing the distance between their chairs. 

She could have held the glass higher up, and concealed any possible tremors by doing so, but instead, she accepted the challenge as she imagined it was being offered. She handed it to him, without spilling any of the liquid, and without betraying her nerves, and then she returned to her seat.

“Thank you, Calista,” her uncle drawled, casually; for a moment, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted the entire situation — if she’d imagined his swipe at her barriers, and even the odd intensity in the room.

Of course it was perfectly normal for her uncle to inquire about her post-graduate plans; she told herself she’d been silly for suspecting this was anything but that. She felt her shoulders start to relax.

And then: Lucius smirked, and lifted the glass,  _ her _ glass.

“Cheers,” he said, drily, and he drained it, just as he had done with his own. The entire time, his eyes never left hers; she felt his presence at the edge of her mind again, and she knew that she had been right, in a way, all along; even if the wine was perfectly safe, it didn’t mean the conversation itself was free of poisons.

“So,” her uncle said, and it took more willpower than she’d imagined it would to keep her expression placid, as she deliberately allowed his presence to seep into the outermost layer of her thoughts. He filtered through her surface thoughts almost carelessly, while her skin crawled; still, despite the warning prickle along her spine, she had practised for precisely this; she had even  _ dealt _ , before, with precisely this. “You’re considering a future in… experimental charms, I believe your father said?”

She focused on suppressing the things he shouldn’t see, the things she  _ couldn’t _ let him see; and then, she let a few of the more innocuously compromising or embarrassing things through, arranged them carefully among the surface tapestry she’d arranged for him to see. She had to create a convincing illusion that there was nothing further to look for, and she had to keep him from realising that’s what she was doing.

“I’m exploring the possibility of qualifying to be appointed to the Committee on Experimental Charms, a few years down the road,” she confirmed, carefully casual. “I have many options in the meantime, though, which I haven’t decided between.”

She let him see the list of internships she’d applied to; she tried to make it seem as if the memory had arisen spontaneously, sparked by the conversation.

She saw her uncle smirk. “All within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I believe your father said? Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? The Wizengamot?”

There; she had him. She hadn’t shown her father the full list, before she’d sent it out, which meant Severus had told him no such thing, and his information was almost coming from his intrusion into her mind; either that, or he’d taken an extremely educated guess.

“That’s what was recommended to me.”

“Hm,” her uncle said; he twirled Calista’s empty wineglass between his fingers, by the stem. As soon he broke eye contact, his presence faded from her mind. “Do many of the positions you’ve applied for require a Transfiguration N.E.W.T.?”

She swallowed, and reminded herself, at the back of her mind, that he was very likely goading her, and until she understood why, she had to remain calm.

“Some of them do,” she managed, hoping her voice was coming out as evenly as she intended, “Professor — well, I was advised to apply to those, anyway, in case my other accomplishments were sufficient to earn an exception.”

“Oh, yes, that’s very good advice,” Uncle Lucius said, eyeing the empty glass rather as if wishing it would refill itself; then his eyes shifted, abruptly, back to her face, and his presence could once again be felt in the outer later of her mind. She concentrated on her expression, on concealing the deeper layers of her mind, and on making the flow of the things she’d allowed to filter into the layer he could see seem reasonably organic. “You are, after all, my dear — quite an  _ exceptional _ young woman. Perhaps too exceptional to be advised by a mere Charms teacher.”

She smiled thinly; she’d gambled, on pretending to stumble over who had given her the advice, and then on letting him see that conversation with Professor Flitwick, and he’d taken the bait. He seemed to think he’d uncovered enough; she felt him withdraw, suddenly and sharply, from her mind. His lack of finesse was jarring and somehow almost mentally painful; she could feel a headache starting in her temples.

“Your father and I have discussed this at length,” Lucius continued, and Calista could feel a snake of thought unravelling far in the back of her mind:  _ Liar _ , it hissed. She kept it well hidden, in her mind, and on her face. “And we do think you should consider setting your sights a bit… higher.”

“Dad hasn’t mentioned that to me,” Calista said, making her eyes go just wide enough to affect an innocent sort of curiosity; “He seemed pleased with the applications I sent.”

“Ah, well — forgive me, my dear, but he finds it difficult, I think, to offer alternate suggestions when you seem so…  _ satisfied _ … with the plan you already have in place.”

The implication was obviously that she should  _ not _ be satisfied; she leaned forward slightly, still careful to avoid narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

“What do you mean, Uncle Lucius?” she made herself say, with a note of eagerness; gods, she wished, perversely, that her father could see this conversation unfolding — except, she had a feeling that if he could, she would swiftly be removed from it, and he would take over.

“I mean precisely what I said, a moment ago,” her uncle said, as smooth as ever, “You have many exceptional qualities, and perhaps far more importantly, many exceptional connections. I would advise you to use  _ all _ of them to your advantage, when the time comes.”

“Are you saying… that you can help me bypass the N.E.W.T. requirements, for some of the internships?” she guessed, aiming for what she imagined her uncle would expect to be her best attempt at being shrewd; although, in truth, if that  _ was _ what he was offering, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, even if it might not necessarily be a  _ fair _ thing.

“I’m saying,” her uncle said, with a small, acute sort of smirk, “That you should explore even more options than you already are — and that you should feel free to apprise me of any, ah —  _ obstacles  _ — that may spring up in your path.”

_ In return for what, precisely? _ She wanted to ask, but she thought that doing so might betray her act; perhaps she had already revealed her inherent suspicion too clearly by refusing the wine. Instead, she made herself smile, hopefully.

“Thank you, Uncle Lucius. I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

His own responding smile was quite thin. “Please do.”

At last, he stopped fiddling with her empty glass, and set it down on the side table beside him, perfectly even with his own glass.

“We’re family, Calista; and family helps each other.” His smile widened slightly. “Even in the  _ darkest _ of times.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista hardly slept on Christmas night, but not, for once, because of nightmares; instead, it was the conversation behind her, and the conversations she feared might be in front of her, that had her tossing and turning.

She got up at least three times to ensure that Gerald’s gifts were in her trunk, that she hadn’t left them at school; in between checking her trunk, she replayed her conversation with her uncle, and questioned her decision not to drink the wine. It obviously hadn’t been dosed with anything, since he’d drunk it himself right in front of her; and she had a quick eye, she was certain she’d have noticed if he’d added anything else to the glass — an antidote, perhaps — after taking it from her.

As if that wasn’t enough to fret over, she wondered how her aunt and uncle would treat Gerald; and then she fretted that her father, for some reason, would be unable to make it, and once  _ that _ thought had occurred to her, she was up for the day, no matter what time it was.

Resigned to giving up on sleep, Calista lit the chandelier in her room and sorted through the clothes she’d brought, and the new ones from Narcissa, trying to decide what to wear. She went back and forth at least a dozen times, but in truth, her mind wasn’t really on the task at hand.

Instead, she was imagining a hundred different, but equally brutal, scenarios.

_ So, I assume you plan on denouncing your Mudblood heritage, if you wish to continue seeing my niece?  _  She could all too easily imagine her uncle saying, or, perhaps worse,  _ I have many connections, if your father is in need of some favour within the Ministry. _

Aunt Narcissa, at least, seemed to genuinely care about Calista’s feelings, so she might refrain from saying anything overtly offensive in Gerald’s presence; but what about after he left? What if Narcissa told her, privately, that she’d decided he was unsuitable after all, that Calista should break things off with him?

Calista sucked in a breath, and squared her shoulders, and remembered what she had told Gerald, many months ago.

_ I told my aunt that nothing she could say about you would make me like you any less — and I’d still say it if your family were hippogriffs. _

It was as true now as it had been then; perhaps even more so. She would just have to make sure that Gerald, above everyone, understood that, if it came to it. She exhaled, pretending she didn’t notice the slight tremor in her breath as she did so.

She was startled by a light tapping at her door.

“Calista, darling?” came her aunt’s voice, low and quiet, from the other side, “Are you up?”

She took another fortifying breath, and opened the door. Her aunt was, incredibly, already dressed, and offered a kind smile.

“I noticed your light on,” she said, “And I guessed you might be trying to decide what to wear for dinner this evening, with your young man.”

She glanced over Calista’s shoulder and into the room, where heaped dresses and blouses covered every available bit of furniture, and smiled knowingly.

“Come and eat breakfast,” her aunt coaxed, “And then, after you’ve cleaned up, I’ll help you choose something.”

She was nervous, and she wasn’t really in the mood to eat, but Narcissa’s persistent fussing was sufficiently annoying to ensure that Calista choked down a reasonable amount of breakfast.

“This young man of yours had better not be the reason you’re eating less,” her aunt said, shrewdly, over a plate of fresh fruit, and Calista shook her head quickly.

“No. He thinks I’m getting too thin.” She flushed. “I mean, he, erm, fusses, too. Like you, and like Dad.”

Gods; how could she be the same person who had faced her Uncle Lucius’ minefield of a conversation so unflinchingly the night before, when she was so easily flustered, at the breakfast table, by  _ this _ ?

“Well, he’s right, darling, though perhaps he should find a more delicate way to say it…”

“He cooks for me,” Calista said, and then she had to suppress another round of blushing. “I mean — he came over several times during the summer and cooked, for Dad and I.”

“Did he?” Narcissa’s brow rose. “Is he any good?”

“Yes,” Calista said, quite fervently. “He’s very good at it; everything he makes is delicious.”

Her aunt’s smile was dangerously close to a smirk. “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it? Considering your vow never to learn to cook, yourself?”

Calista suppressed a scowl, and stuck her fork into a slice of melon. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘vow’. I was — what, thirteen?”

“What else did you declare you’d never do?” her aunt mused, “Share your room, I believe — get married, of course. Have children.”

“Who says I’m going to do any of those things now?”

Her aunt’s smirk widened. “We’ll see, darling. If not with this young Mr. Boot, then with someone else, I’m certain.”

“No,” Calista said, quite a bit more firmly than she’d realised she was going to. “Probably not at all. But  _ definitely  _ not with anyone other than Gerald.”

“Seventeen is still very young, love; there’s time to change your mind.”

Calista took the last bite of fruit from her plate, and then set her fork down.

“Aunt Narcissa,” she said, suddenly quite serious; it occurred to her that if perhaps she could make her aunt  _ truly _ understand how important Gerald was to her, she would be kind to him. “Remember when I asked you, once, when I was still dating Marcus, how you knew you were in love with Uncle Lucius?”

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa said, almost dreamily, “And I remember what I told you — wanting to be with him, whenever we were apart; enjoying time spent with him far more than time spent alone. Talking for hours, about everything and about nothing.”

“Well, that’s the thing; that didn’t sound anything like Marcus and I. The longer we were together, the more time we tried to spend  _ apart _ , so we wouldn’t argue; but I  _ can _ talk to Gerald for hours, about… well, about everything, and sometimes about nothing. And I won’t say I… I won’t exactly say I  _ love _ him, yet _ …” _

_ At least not until I’ve worked out how to say it to  _ him _ ,  _ Calista thought silently, and then pressed on:

“But I  _ do _ love spending time with him, and as soon as I have to leave, or he has to leave, I’m counting down the days until I can see him again. I know I’m only seventeen, as you said, but — weren’t you, also?“

Her aunt’s smile had shifted from teasing, to pensive; she regarded Calista over the breakfast table quite as studiously as her husband had done the previous night over the wine glasses, but with an entirely different sort of levity; one that didn’t make Calista afraid.

“Aunt Narcissa, this isn’t the first time I’ve dated a boy,” she said quietly, “And... this  _ is _ the first time I’ve felt this way, about one — about anyone.”

“Calista, darling, I didn’t realise…” her aunt’s expression had shifted again, and she shifted her body in response, leaning closer across the table. She reached for Calista, placing her hand on top of hers, lightly.

“Well,” Calista managed, “I suppose I’m — just starting to realise it myself.”

It was true, really; strangely, her instinctive withdrawal from him, last time, had felt, for the first time,  _ wrong _ ; and that truly was different from any way she’d felt before.

“Darling,” her aunt said again, dipping her head forward slightly; a lock of shiny blonde hair fell forward, and brushed delicately over the skin of her own hand. She pushed it aside, with the other hand, still keeping the one firmly over Calista’s. Calista could feel her heart trembling, slightly; the moment felt suddenly light and heavy, all at once — was this what it should have been like, if she’d had Narcissa all along? Were they about to have a… a  _ moment _ ?

“Are you planning on having sex with him?” her aunt asked quietly, and the moment was shattered.

“ _ Aunt Narcissa _ ,” Calista hissed, pulling her hand away, and back to her lap. “ _ No _ .”

Her aunt’s brow arched delicately. “Never, then?” she asked, knowingly.

“Well,” Calista managed, “Not — not at the  _ moment _ .”

Something struck her, though, in that moment; something entirely unexpected. It was the realisation that — maybe, if she could ever find a way to tell him about her scars — or, more likely, find a way to permanently hide them from him — it was a thing that she could envision herself wanting, at some point. She already wanted other things, more innocent things; things she had never quite wanted so clearly, before: she wanted to touch his skin, she wanted to put her mouth on it, as she’d done that day in the woods, pressing her lips to the hollow dip in his collarbone. She wanted, sometimes, to unbutton the stiff, collared shirts he liked to wear…

She felt a fierce blush threatening to overtake her face; she tried to fight it off, but her aunt’s look now was both knowing, and telling.

“As I’ve told you before,” her aunt said, smoothly, “It’s a perfectly natural thing to want; and you are not as young now, as you were, then. And, I think, not  _ quite _ as far from the idea, in your own mind, as you were before.”

“Aunt Narcissa,” Calista said, through nearly gritted teeth; gods, this was the worst possible conversation she could be having. She almost yearned for Lucius to storm in, and start questioning her about her career prospects again — but then again, if he  _ or _ her father walked in now, she might literally die of embarrassment. “I’m not — I mean…”

She expected her aunt to laugh, gently, or to remind her that there was nothing shameful about their conversation, as she had before, but instead, her aunt inclined her head, and nodded, quite seriously. “Go on, darling.”

Calista swallowed; this was positively mortifying, and  _ yet _ … somehow, not as much as it had seemed, before.

“I’m not ready for — that — yet. I don’t know if I ever will be, really, but… I know I’m not, now. I suppose… I suppose it doesn’t seem… impossible, in the future, but — “ she finished in a rush: “It certainly won’t be while I’m still at school.”

It was something that her father had always made clear to her was the wise and preferred course of action; but more importantly, since she would hardly see Gerald outside of school until the summer, it was also a physical impossibility, for which she was absurdly grateful.

She left out what was perhaps the most important part; that  _ only _ with Gerald did she feel such a thing might not be impossible. She’d said enough; probably far too much.

To Calista’s relief, her aunt nodded, almost matter-of-factly, and patted the spot on the table where Calista’s hand had been, before she’d snatched it away.

“Very well,” she said, and she sounded satisfied — pleased, even. “Then we don’t need to revisit this discussion until a little later on, I think. I appreciate your honesty, darling; I know it can be a difficult thing to talk about.”

“That’s putting it — rather mildly, I think.”

Her aunt smiled. “Perhaps it is; shall we move on to an easier course of conversation, then — like, what to wear, this evening?”

“Yes,” Calista said, relieved to leave the awkwardness of the last few minutes behind, but also strangely relieved that the last few minutes had happened, “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Go on up and shower now, darling; that will give us plenty of time to figure out your dress and your hair --ah, and your  _ shoes _ , of course.”

“I’m not wearing high heels,” Calista said, warningly; her aunt smirked.

“We’ll see.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista wanted to meet Gerald in front of the gate to Malfoy Manor, admittedly so she could have one last chance to warn him what he was getting himself into, but her aunt wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted that he should wait in the foyer for her to put in a proper appearance, much as she’d insisted years before, with Marcus. Calista argued vehemently, and in the end they agreed that she could wait in the foyer, and her father would go and meet Gerald at the gate.

She had won precisely one other argument with her aunt, that morning, and that was over the shoes; once Calista had told her aunt that she and Gerald were nearly the same height, Narcissa had relented and allowed Calista to wear her customary flats. Narcissa, however, was quite persistent and had gained her way in nearly every other decision that morning, which was how Calista ended up wearing a knee-length, long-sleeved dress made entirely of satin-lined red lace, and translucent tights. It was also how she ended up having both her hair and her  _ eyelashes _ curled, though Calista had admittedly run her hairbrush vigorously through her hair as soon as Narcissa left the room, stubbornly pulling out most of the curl.

If she were being perfectly honest, she had to admit the dress looked nice on her, even if  _ felt _ far too fussy. It was one of the few pieces her aunt had given her for Christmas that still managed to fit her body closely, and the narrow black patent belt that her aunt had knowingly added managed to create  _ some _ illusion of a figure, even if it was slight.

Calista felt her stomach clench and her heart speed up with nerves, when the Perimeter Charm around the grounds dinged softly, indicating an arrived guest. Severus touched her shoulder, and leaned close.

“Behave yourself,” he murmured, near her ear, “Be polite and courteous, and I will do my best to ensure that your uncle is as well.”

She nodded, still feeling a spiral of apprehension as he went out, to fetch Gerald, which disappeared, immediately, when she saw him.

He was dressed in her favourite way, with one of his buttoned, collared shirts, and a V-neck jumper over it; he held a bouquet at his side, which he promptly held out to her when he saw her.

“Hi, Gerald,” she grinned, accepting the flowers; she couldn’t help it. She lit up, even though her father was standing right next to him, and she could hear someone approaching from the main hall.

“ _ Mon colibri _ ,” he said, quietly; it was intended for her alone, but she supposed it was possible that her father might have heard, as well. She saw his eyes travel her up and down, and his cheeks pinkened, slightly.

“Calista…  _ je n’ai pas de mots…, _ ” he muttered, uncharacteristically stumbling slightly over his words:  _I don't have words_ , she translated, but then, the rather imposing form of her Uncle Lucius had just appeared behind her, so she supposed it may have been nerves, from that. “You look impossibly —”

He stopped, and straightened, when Lucius approached at Calista’s shoulder. He extended his hand, politely; Calista did not miss that Severus had not moved from his position at Gerald’s side.

“Hello, sir,” Gerald said, perfectly well-mannered, “I’m Gerald Boot. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Lucius hesitated a fraction of a second, before he took Gerald’s offered hand and shook it.

“Likewise,” he said, in a tone that clung to the line between courtesy and dismissal. “Lucius Malfoy; I’m certain you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, yes,” Gerald said, dancing around earnestness just as neatly as Calista’s uncle danced around courtesy, “Calista has certainly mentioned you.”

It wasn’t at all what Lucius had meant, and they all knew it; Calista bit her lip, suppressing a grin, and, admittedly, a rush of pride; she promptly hid her face behind the bouquet of flowers, to cover it, but Gerald met her eyes over the top of it, and she was certain he’d noticed.

“I believe,” Severus said, neatly cutting into the ensuing silence, “That Narcissa awaits us for tea, Lucius?”

Lucius muttered some sort of agreement, and he and Severus led the way towards the library; Calista had eyes only for Gerald, who managed to sidle beside her, and positioned himself near her ear, as they followed behind.

“Look at the flowers,” he said, very quietly, and then they were led into the library, which had been set for tea. Extra chairs had been brought in, as they had once before, on one of Calista’s first visits to the manor, but they were still short one, since Draco had not originally been expected to join them, but had anyway.

Severus motioned Calista into precisely the same chair she’d occupied the night before, during her conversation with her uncle, and stood behind it, with his hand resting on the back of it; she would have to tell him, later, how grateful she was for his presence.

Narcissa and Gerald were introduced; she, at least, did seem sincere in her courtesy. She noticed that Gerald did not sit until both she and her aunt had, and that Lucius did not sit down at all, until Narcissa gently suggested he should, and came around with tea.

“No coffee today, darling,” her aunt told her, when she’d come around to her, “But I expect you and your young man will want to be on your way soon, yes?”

“Yes,” Calista said, and she felt suddenly quite ready to forgive her aunt for the indignity of the eyelash curler, “Very — erm, very soon.”

Perhaps Lucius had overheard, or — more likely — he was eager to assert his social dominance as quickly and clearly as possible, for he had launched almost immediately into a description of his various roles and influences within the Ministry; when he described himself as a former school governor, and made it sound as though he’d stepped down for lack of time, Gerald had the grace merely to nod, and not to point out what he already knew from Calista, which was that he’d been sacked, at the end of last year.

It was when her uncle moved on to questioning Gerald that Calista tensed, leaning forward slightly in her chair; her teacup soon sat on a side table, forgotten.

“Ah,” her uncle said, setting his own teacup down, and steepling his fingers together, “You work at Flourish and Blott’s, you say? The bookstore, in Diagon Alley?”

“At the moment, yes, I do.”

“I see,” her uncle said; Calista did not miss the nasty little smirk that played at the corners of his mouth, and she sucked in a breath. “And how many N.E.W.T.s does that require?”

“Gerald has ten,” Calista couldn’t keep herself from interrupting; her uncle fixed her with a very direct stare; to her surprise, so too, did Gerald.

“You forget your manners, Calista,” her uncle said smoothly, “Do not interrupt when others are speaking.”

She could feel a growl starting in her throat; but Severus's finger brushed her shoulder lightly, a warning, and Gerald’s eyes were locked on her still. He nodded, slightly, with his chin; she realised he was trying to indicate something — the flowers, that she still held on her lap. As soon as her gaze fell to them, he looked away, back towards her Uncle Lucius.

It  _ was _ rather an unusual assortment of flowers, in the bouquet, but they were all blooms that were readily available in the winter, which was why she’d initially assumed he’d chosen them… she applied a more careful eye. Sprigs of mistletoe, white poppies, starflowers, and a strain of hellebore more commonly called a Christmas Rose… 

The first thing that occurred to her was that, with one exception, all of the flowers were fairly common potions ingredients. The outlier, the Christmas Rose, was poisonous of itself, but considered too delicate and unstable to be reliably used in modern potions. She considered the potions she knew, but there was not one she could think of that used all or even most of those plants.

Gerald and her uncle were still talking; her ears perked in their direction, even as she continued to consider the flowers in her lap. She could still feel her father’s hand on her shoulder, a subtle reassurance, as well as a reminder to stay calm.

“How much longer do you plan on pursing your current — ah,  _ career _ ?” her uncle asked; Calista tightened her fingers around the bundled stems.

“I’d hardly call what I’m doing now my  _ career _ ,” Gerald said, evenly, matching her uncle’s tone almost precisely, “Some people take an internship for a year out of Hogwarts; some travel. I’m using my year to help my family through a difficult situation, and then I’ll take a suitable position at the end of my post-graduate year, like anyone else would.”

“Ah,” Lucius said, and a less keen eye than Calista’s would have taken his smile for friendly; perhaps she was too jaded, for she saw it as predatory more than anything else. “If it’s not too delicate a subject to share, perhaps there’s something I can do to help with this…  _ difficulty _ . After all, I do know a few people.”

_ Shit. _ Calista wished, suddenly, that she’d thought to warn Gerald that this offer of help, of advancement for his family might come from her uncle; why  _ hadn’t  _ she? She tried to communicate to him, silently, that her uncle had no magnanimous intentions, but Gerald still wasn't looking at her.

“I’m certain that’s a very generous offer,” Gerald hedged; he seemed uncertain.

“Indeed it is, Lucius,” came Severus’ voice from over Calista’s shoulder; he sounded friendly enough, but Calista knew him well enough to detect the slight warning edge. “Especially considering you’ve only just met Mr. Boot today. It seems rather…  _ soft _ of you.”

It was as clear a warning as Calista thought he dared to give; after all, anyone who had ever laid eyes on Lucius Malfoy might describe as all manner of things, but never  _ soft _ . The implication  _ she _ understood was that his offer was deceptive; but would Gerald see that, in the few minutes he’d known Calista’s uncle?

“Ah, well, we can all be a bit soft, can’t we, when it comes to family?” Lucius replied, unruffled as ever, “Perhaps it is my dearest affection for my niece that leads me to extend such a generous offer to someone whom she clearly holds in…” His mouth curled, in distaste or disbelief, “... high regard.”

“Oh, yes,” Calista murmured; she couldn’t quite help herself. “We’re  _ dearly _ affectionate.”

Lucius smiled thinly, reminiscent of the way he had the night before; Gerald, when he glanced at her again, had an odd expression on his face that she couldn’t quite read with confidence. He coughed, slightly, into his hand, and Calista looked away, afraid that her uncle might interpret some hidden message between them that wasn’t precisely happening.

Lucius moved on, then, to questioning Gerald about what the might aim to do after he finished his tenure at the bookstore; Calista distracted herself from the urge to interrupt a third time by studying the bouquet.

White poppies… a key ingredient in a Draught of Peace… and then, suddenly, she remembered a similar association, another place where she’d seen the word  _ poppy _ and the word  _ peace  _ together: the book her father had lent her, nearly a year ago, now: the one she’d used to decode Gerald’s very first bouquet, on Valentine’s Day.  _ Poppy, white: symbolic of peaceful agreements and treaties between opposing parties _ , or something like that, the book had said.

She’d pored over it the next day, searching for the correct way to respond in kind, with the symbolism of the flowers… _ of course. _ She renewed her interest in the other flowers. Mistletoe: well, there was the obvious connotation of kissing, but — it was also a common ingredient in both antidotes, and poisons. There might have been a third meaning associated with it, but she couldn’t recall. She moved on to the next flower.

The hellebore, or the Christmas Rose… she’d initially gravitated towards its poisonous nature, but didn’t the book also mention something about calming, or soothing anxiety? She was nearly certain it did.

Starflower....she closed her eyes briefly, trying to imagine the page as she’d seen it, the last time she’d looked at the book.

_ Borage, or starflower, _ the page had said,  _ this colourful bloom is often used to signify courage, possibly due to the mild euphoric side-effect when used for its healing properties _ .

She put the pieces together — even without quite recalling what the book had said about mistletoe, she had courage, peace, and calming anxiety — and he  _ had _ told her to look at the flowers.

There was a lull in the conversation; Calista gambled, and said into it, forcing herself to sound pleasant and slightly girlish: “Gerald, did I forget to properly thank you for these flowers? They’re — erm, lovely.”

He met her gaze; she thought she could see a question in it, and she smiled, slightly. He nodded, very slightly, and suddenly, she was  _ positive _ she’d understood, at last. He  _ had _ known, at least to some extent, what he was walking into — and he was trying to let her know not to worry.

“I thought you might find them — appealing,” he said seriously, adjusting his glasses, “I’m glad I was correct.”

Narcissa smiled, and shifted slightly forward in her seat. “They certainly are nice,” she said, “Gerald, Calista tells me you were Head Boy at Hogwarts, last year?’

He nodded; Calista thought he still looked slightly uncertain, as if perhaps he suspected another trap.

“And you were in Ravenclaw, yes?”

Gerald nodded, again. “Yes, I am — er, was, I suppose.”

Narcissa shifted, again. “What were your favourite classes?”

“Ancient Runes,” Gerald said, almost immediately, “And History of Magic, and Potions, and — erm, actually, I think I rather liked them all.”

Draco coughed into his tea that sounded suspiciously like ‘swot’; Calista had almost forgotten he was there.

“Well, I suppose you must have to, to achieve — what did Calista say — ten N.E.W.T.s, was it?”

“Yes, I have ten.” His response, and his manner, were neither boastful nor shy; he said it quite matter-of-factly, as if he’d been confirming the number of toes he had.

“Which subjects?” Lucius cut in, curiously.

Gerald shifted, sparing a glance towards Calista. She tried to give him an encouraging look, and glanced longingly to the grandfather clock in the corner, behind where her uncle sat. Her aunt had promised her earlier they needn’t stay more than half an hour; surely that much time had passed, already?

“Ancient Runes,” Gerald said again, “Arithmancy, Astronomy, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination, Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, and Transfiguration.”

Calista pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile; he’d listed them all in alphabetical order, probably without even thinking of it. Merlin, he was impossibly adorable; even here, amid the tension in the room, she couldn’t stop thinking it.

“My, my, very impressive ” Lucius said; somehow, even when claiming to be impressed, he managed to sound anything but. “I believe that’s every subject at Hogwarts, except for Care of Magical Creatures, isn’t it?”

Calista tensed; he’d deliberately left out Muggle Studies. Perhaps she was paranoid, but she was certain he’d done so precisely so Gerald would mention it, and  _ that _ would open the door to the conversation of why Gerald  _ hadn’t _ taken it; he hadn’t needed to, living with his mother.

“I did receive an O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures,” Gerald said, sidestepping the issue entirely, “But I elected not to continue on, in favour of taking up some independent study periods, instead. Besides, to be perfectly honest, the Herbology greenhouses and the top of the Astronomy Tower were quite enough of the outdoors, for me. I can’t say I was particularly enamoured of the stables.”

“Speaking of the stables,” Lucius said, with a glance toward his son, and then to Severus, “I’ve been informed they’re sending someone out to examine that vicious beast that attacked Draco; evidence for the trial, I’m told, though why there even needs to be one is beyond me.”

“It’s because of Potter,” Draco said, immediately and loudly, “That oaf they’re calling a teacher is  _ friends with Potter _ , which means Dumbledore won’t punish him —”

With that, they were well and solidly onto another topic; Calista felt herself relax, slightly. And then:

“The time has flown by, hasn’t it?” her aunt said, setting her teacup aside and rising; like every single one of her motions, it was deliberate, and elegant. “I’m sure these two would like to be going; Calista, darling, may I have a quick word with you, before you go?”

Perhaps she’d felt relief too soon; she nodded, uncertainly, and stood as well.

“Oh, yes, we  _ have _ been chatting quite a while, haven’t we?” Lucius said, and then he cut a glance back towards Gerald. “Tell me again, lad, where you two are off to?”

Gerald stood, and glanced at Calista before answering.

“We’re having dinner with my older cousin and his fiancée,” he said, “They both work for the Ministry, actually — perhaps you might know one of them.”

“Perhaps I might,” Lucius said; but if he asked their names or which departments they worked for, it happened after her aunt beckoned her out of the room.

She kept both hands wrapped around the base of the bouquet, as she followed her aunt, partly because it felt somehow reassuring, and partly to hide any potential tremors in her fingers.

“Well,” her aunt said, after they had cleared the library, and returned to the foyer. “He certainly is very  _ different _ from Marcus Flint.”

“Yes, he is,” Calista said, firmly, “In all of the best possible ways.”

For some reason, her aunt smirked slightly. “Really, darling?  _ All _ of them?”

With effort, Calista managed not to scowl. “Yes.  _ All  _ of them.”

Her aunt chuckled softly, hiding it delicately behind her hand.

“What’s so amusing, then?” Calista challenged.

“Nothing, darling.” Narcissa’s soft laughter faded into a smile of amusement. “It’s only — I was certain you were exaggerating, when you told me you were the same height; he is a bit on the  _ small _ side, don’t you think?”

“So?”

“Well — he seems like a perfectly nice boy, of course,” her aunt said, lifting her nose slightly, “I just didn’t expect — I mean, after that big Quidditch player of yours, it must be quite an adjustment, is all, I suppose.”

Calista narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, with a bit more ferocity than she’d initially intended, “I suppose it was an  _ adjustment,  _ in many ways. Actually having things to talk about, for one. Being with someone who doesn’t hate most of my friends. Oh, and it  _ is _ nice, not having to explain constantly why I don’t want to sneak off to the Prefects’ bathroom together.”

“Oh, Calista, love, I didn’t mean anything by it,  _ really _ . If he’s kind to you and makes you happy, then I suppose that’s what matters. And your father seems to like him; that carries a lot of weight with Lucius and I, you know.”

They could hear footsteps approaching, then, and momentarily, Severus and Gerald entered the foyer.

“I need to return to the school,” Severus said, “I expect I’ll hear from you later, Calista; please return here by eight at the latest. Narcissa, it’s been a pleasure, as always.”

Calista nodded, quickly. “Thanks for coming, Dad,” she said; she hoped he understood how very sincerely she meant it.

“It’s always good to see you as well, Severus,” Narcissa said, warmly; she clasped his hand briefly.

“I’ll be right back,” Calista said to Gerald, “I have to run upstairs and get your Christmas gift — but then we can go.”

He nodded; she thought he sidled towards the front door a bit. She went as quickly up the stairs to her room as she dared, with her aunt watching; as soon as she was out of sight of the landing, she dashed into her room, and grabbed the packages she’d left by the door, earlier. She ran, again, until she reached the top landing of the staircase, and even then, she continued down swiftly.

Her aunt insisted on hugging her goodbye, of course, even though she would be coming back that evening; Calista allowed her aunt’s arms to envelop her, and the scent of her perfume to fill her nose, and then,  _ finally _ , she was allowed to grab her cloak and leave, with Gerald.

As soon as they felt the tell-tale tingle of the Perimeter Charm, just beyond the manor gates, but still out of sight from the closest street, Gerald drew his wand.

“I do realise you’re perfectly capable of Apparating yourself,” he said, a bit uneasily, “But I promised your father we’d go together—”

“I’m not surprised. It’s fine; let’s just get out of here.”

She shifted the bouquet to the same arm where she was holding his Christmas gift, and reached for his free hand. Their fingers twined together, and then:

“Ready?” Gerald lifted his wand. Calista nodded, and with a familiar  _ pop _ and a sensation that would never be quite pleasant, they were gone.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

“Gerald, I’m so sorry,” Calista said quietly, as soon as they’d materialised in the alley a few blocks from where he lived, “I should have warned you…”

Gerald’s brow furrowed. “You did,” he said, “In your letter, and every time you’ve ever talked about your family. I tried to be very careful… I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?”

She shook her head quickly, as he slipped his wand back into the pocket of his trousers; she touched the pocket of her cloak, reassuring herself that she’d put her own in her pocket. “No, you were —  _ perfect _ , actually. I just felt awful, having my uncle interrogate you like that…”

“It — actually, I think it could have gone far worse,” Gerald said, “I was half-expecting him to call me the M-word, based on what you’ve told me before, and based on the way your cousin talks at school.”

“I think I might have hexed him, if he did.”

“Honestly, the hardest part for me was trying to keep myself from thinking that they must’ve  _ known _ , your aunt and uncle — both of them — you know, when you were younger… and they didn’t do anything about it. But then — if that’s the standard I’m going by, I’d never be friendly with any of my family either, I suppose.”

“I imagine it was the same for all of them,” Calista said, frowning. “They didn’t want to believe it, so they — well, they, just didn’t.”

Gerald nodded; and then, swiftly, the subject passed, as if they’d both wordlessly agreed they didn’t want to talk about it. “Can I carry those for you?” Gerald asked, gesturing towards the packages she held, “Or is that not allowed, since they’re for me?”

“I don’t suppose there’s really a rule,” Calista said, handing the two small packages over; she smirked, tapping the one that was very clearly the size and shape of a book. “No shaking this one, to try and guess what it is, mind you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerald said, reaching for her hand again once he’d settled the packages in his other arm, “It is a broomstick, though, right?”

She laughed. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” She adjusted her grip on her flowers, and then: “I suppose I could have left these at the house.”

“Don’t you mean —” Gerald offered a slightly crooked smile, “at the  _ manor _ ?”

She winced, slightly. “Please don’t hold that against me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, “It’s just, I’ve never seen anyone actually have a proper  _ gate _ before, with a monogram and everything.”

“It gets worse,” she said, miserably, “They have  _ albino peacocks _ .”

“Seriously? As pets?”

“As decorations, I think; I never see anyone  _ petting _ them.”

“Merlin.” Gerald shook his head, slightly. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but — I’m a bit glad you live in a  _ normal _ house. I don’t think I could get used to visiting you somewhere like  _ that _ all the time.”

She smiled, as they approached the building he lived in, with his mother and brother in a small, cosy flat that took up half of the second floor.

“I’m glad you do, too,” she said, quietly; she hoped he understood what she meant, that she saw his family as perfectly  _ normal  _ too, even if they weren’t purebloods.

“Well, that’s not strictly true,” Gerald said, unlocking the outer door to the building, “After all, you haven’t seen Terry’s half of our room, yet — actually, I’m not sure if I want you to.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, believe me, it can; I went in and cleaned it yesterday, even though he doesn’t like me touching his things, because it was an absolute disaster and I didn’t want you to see it; so, naturally, this morning, he tore it all apart again just to spite me, and now it’s even worse than it was before.”

She winced. “Did you find the dungbomb?”

Gerald grimaced. “I’d rather not say.” He glanced over at her, as they climbed the stairs. “You did piece the message together, by the way, didn’t you? From the flowers?”

She smiled. “Most of it,” she said, “I’m afraid I didn’t quite see how the mistletoe fit in, though.”

“Oh.” They’d reached the landing now; Gerald let go of her hand, and held it out, ostensibly for the flowers. “May I?”

She tilted her head, uncertainly, and held them out. “Of course…”

He took them from her, and then he grinned, almost sheepishly. “They, erm... didn’t quite go with the rest of the message.”

He lifted the bouquet up, over both of their heads, and met her gaze.

“Then what —” she looked from his face, up to the bouquet, and then she felt her eyes go wide. “Oh!” She matched his grin, briefly, and then: “I think I understand.”

She moved towards him, and placed her arms around his shoulders, and she kissed him; evidently, she’d gotten it right. The arm with the flowers lowered, and wrapped around her waist, and he returned her kiss quite earnestly.

And then,  _ of course _ , the door to his flat flew open.

“Gross,” she heard Terry say, and then the door slammed shut again. 

They both started, and quickly parted. When she looked at Gerald, his cheeks were pink; she guessed hers were, too.

“Erm,” Gerald said, “I suppose we’d better go in, then.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Meeting Gerald’s family — properly, anyway, because she knew his brother from school, and had met his mother at his birthday party, long ago — was so entirely different from his visit to  _ her _ family’s home that it was as if the two homes existed in different worlds.

Gerald’s flat was small, and cosy, and — like her own summer home in Cokeworth — had an eat-in kitchen with mismatched chairs instead of a formal dining room, and it had a warm, lived-in feeling that Calista vastly preferred to the cold opulence of Malfoy Manor, and even a bit to the home she shared with her father.

His mother seemed a lot less reserved, this time around. She had actually hugged Calista, who had tried her best not to respond stiffly, and welcomed her immediately, while Gerald took Calista’s cloak and the bouquet into another room.

“Tina Underwood,” she said, introducing herself properly once she’d released Calista, “I’m so glad Gerry’s found such a nice girl,” she continued, “He’s told me so much about you that I feel like I know you already.”

“Well, don’t keep her to yourself, Tina,” a male voice said; two figures rose from the sofa, just as Gerald rejoined her, “We’ve heard him going on and on about her, too; let’s have a look, eh?”

Tina stepped aside, and Calista saw the figures, better; the male looked slightly familiar — she supposed she might have met him at Gerald’s birthday party, too. He had brown hair and brown eyes, like Gerald’s, but he didn’t wear glasses and he was quite a bit taller, and somewhat broader.

“I’m Chadwick,” he said, extending his hand, “Gerry’s most interesting and charming cousin; this lovely woman is Miraphina, and she’s fool enough to have agreed to marry me, if you can believe it.”

The woman beside him was quite lovely, indeed. She had long, sleek chestnut-brown hair, deep blue eyes, and very pretty, delicate features. She was also dressed in something Calista thought her Aunt Narcissa would wear.

Calista took his offered hand, expecting him to shake it — instead, he lifted it to his lips, and brushed them over her knuckles, quite lightly. Instead of making her blush, like when Gerald did it; she laughed, a bit uneasily. “Are  _ you  _ where he learned that from, then?”

“What, this?” Chadwick lifted her hand again, but didn’t actually kiss it, this time. “No, we’re born knowing it; all of the Boot men are  _ quite _ charming, you know.”

The pretty young woman, Miraphina, laughed. “They’re something, all right. Oh, and it’s  _ Mira _ , please, not Miraphina, unless you’d like me to scowl at you every time you call my name — which Chadwick seems to enjoy, for some reason.”

“Speaking of scowling,” Chadwick said, “You’re really Professor  _ Snape’s _ daughter?”

“Yes, I am. And no, he’s really not as bad as you think.”

“See, that’s what Gerry tells us,” Chadwick said, shaking his head slightly, “But I just can’t picture that guy having a  _ kid _ .”

Calista shrugged, uncertainly; then Chadwick narrowed his eyes and went on:

“So. Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way — there’s something else I’ve got to ask you.”

Calista stiffened; she felt her heart began to race.He was going to ask about her mother… she was certain of it.

“What?” she asked, trying to hide her unease. Suddenly, she felt Gerald’s hand reaching for hers; she glanced at him, and his expression was perfectly calm.

“Did Gerry really ask you out in the library? I’m thinking of having him disowned if he made that up.”

Calista exhaled, and felt her shoulders relax. Gerald squeezed her hand.

Mira rolled her eyes, and swatted at her fiancé’s arm. “Stop it, she might not realise you’re joking.”

“Who says I am?” Chadwick grinned. There were two slightly worn and very comfortable-looking armchairs in the living room, and after gesturing Gerald and Calista towards the sofa, Chadwick went for one of them; Mira settled in the other.

Gerald let go of her hand, a bit reluctantly, and took a seat on the sofa. Calista perched beside him, though not  _ too  _ close, in front of everyone. There was a small gap between them.

“Erm — it was actually in Arithmancy class, I suppose,” Calista said, reflecting, “But — well, yes, I suppose the  _ official _ beginning of things was in the library, in the Restricted Section.”

“Wow,” Chadwick said, “That’s perfect. Arithmancy, huh? And you were in the same class?”

She nodded.

“So you must be taking it at the N.E.W.T. level,” he said, “Unless Gerry’s hiding a dark past and he stayed a year behind.”

“Yes,” Calista agreed, vaguely. “Definitely one of those things.”

Chadwick grinned. “I think I like her, Gerry. Don’t screw this up.”

“I knew you would like her,” Gerald said; he sounded quite pleased. “I told you, she’s perfect.”

“Well, she’s not a Ravenclaw,” Chadwick countered, good-naturedly, “But I suppose at least she’s at least got the good taste to get with one, eh? But then, what woman can resist a Boot, really?”

“Not me,” Calista murmured, quietly, for only Gerald to hear. She reached for  _ his _ hand this time, and squeezed it gently. “At least, not  _ this _ one.”

Gerald squeezed her hand back, and smiled at her; they made eye contact briefly — gods, he was so cute… she wanted to —

“You’re not going to start snogging again, are you?” Terry said, as he entered the living room, dragging one of the dining chairs from the kitchen with him, so he could sit, too. “Some of us  _ would _ like to be able to eat, at some point today.”

“That’s not very nice, Terry,” Gerald’s mother scolded gently; she had gone into the kitchen, but poked her head out, now.

“Yeah, well,  _ you _ don’t have to share a room with him.” Terry shot back, “If I have to listen to him working out one more of those stupid  _ poems _ —”

“Erm, so Chadwick and Mira are having their wedding in September,” Gerald cut in, quickly and loudly, “Good time of year, isn’t it?”

Calista narrowed her eyes, and turned her head to look at Gerald directly; he was suddenly looking anywhere but at her.

“Did he say  _ poems _ ?” she asked, “I think I made my feelings on  _ those _ very clear…”

Chadwick was chuckling, now; Terry was still pouting.

“Erm, yes, you did,” Gerald hedged; he glanced at her, and his cheeks turned a little pink. “You said I couldn’t send you any.”

She nodded, relieved and satisfied.

He cleared his throat slightly, and shifted a little closer to her on the sofa; his grip on her hand tightened, too. “Although — ahem, as I recall, you never said I couldn't  _ write _ them.”

Calista felt her eyes widen in alarm. “I’m fairly certain I did. And that’s obviously what I  _ meant _ .”

Gerald’s expression, when he looked back at her, was once of exaggerated innocence and contrition. “Oh. Was it?”

She scowled, and Chadwick laughed, loudly.

“That’s it, right there!” he said, “the look  _ Miraphina _ gives me when I call her by her full name!”

“Well, it’s obviously not effective enough,” Mira groused; when Calista glanced at her, she had to admit that she did have a fairly impressive scowl, though she seriously doubted it could rival a Snape.

Gerald took the opportunity to rise, a bit guiltily, releasing Calista’s hand. “I ought to see if Mum needs any help in the kitchen,” he said, obviously trying to make an escape before Calista could respond about the poetry.

“Oh, no no no, that won’t do  _ at all _ ,” Chadwick grinned, leaping up. “Mira and I will do that; you stay here and spend some quality time with your muse, Ger.”

Gerald’s mother had poked her head out from the kitchen, again. “I’m fine, everything’s nearly done anyway,” she said, waving a wooden spoon in a dismissive gesture. “You all keep visiting; Terry, can you set the table, please?”

“Why do I always have to do  _ everything _ ?” Terry grumped, loping into the kitchen. Gerald rolled his eyes.

“That’s literally the only thing she’s asked him to do since he came home from school,” Gerald said, practically leaping at the chance to change the subject, “But he’ll be harping on about it the rest of the break, just you watch.”

“You think that’s bad?” Mira sniffed, “Try having younger  _ sisters _ . I don’t think I got five minutes in the washroom until I was fifteen — and all the  _ bickering  _ over who’s wearing whose clothes, honestly.”

“Oh, yeah, we Boots don’t have that problem,” Chadwick said, easily. “All boys, all the way through — think it’s been, what, Gerry, a hundred years since we had a girl? More, even?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gerald said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, right, yeah, I forgot — sorry, it always seems like you’ve been around us forever. Hey, reckon maybe that’s some part of the curse leftover? No female children?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gerald said again; Mira snorted. “I’d hardly call that a  _ curse _ . It’s nothing but girls, in my family. I have four sisters, and my mother has six. I’d have given anything for just  _ one _ boy in the family.”

“Yeah, Mira and I reckon when we get around to having children, it’s going to break a family legacy, either way,” Chadwick said, “Quite frankly, after hearing the horror stories about her sisters, I hope I win.”

Calista fidgeted, slightly uneasy; it felt strange, to hear people speak so openly and casually about having grown up with siblings, to plainly express the desire to have children of their own. It made her feel, suddenly and without warning, a bit melancholy; after all, her mother had wanted her only to use her, and it was plain from her father’s tale of how things had unfolded that he hadn’t ever intended on having her.

“I wouldn’t care either way,” Gerald said, surprising her, “If I had sons or daughters, as long as they were healthy, and happy. And… safe.”

Calista felt him glance at her; she looked studiously away, and felt the familiar canter of panic start to flicker through her heart. That didn’t meant that he actually  _ wanted _ to have children someday, did it? They couldn’t…  _ she _ couldn’t, ever. The very idea of it terrified her. The idea of  _ Gerald _ having children terrified her just as much, honestly, because it would have to be with someone other than her...

“Yeah, well, you’ve got quite a few years yet, anyway,” Chadwick said, easily, “You’re not getting old like us.”

Mira raised an eyebrow delicately. “Old? I didn’t realise twenty-five was suddenly so  _ old _ .”

“Well, if we want five or six, we’ve got to start early, right?”

“ _ You _ want five or six,” Mira shuddered. “I’d be happy with two, I think. And we need enough washrooms for everyone to have their own — I’m not listening to the arguments, ever again; and I’m  _ not _ waiting to dry my hair.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Gerald’s mother interrupted, coming out into the living room; Calista practically heaved a sigh of relief to be excused from  _ that _ particular conversation. 

They all streamed into the kitchen; it was the largest room in the flat, and at the moment, it was filled with positively  _ wonderful _ scents. Evidently, what Gerald had said was true — he  _ did _ get his proclivity for cooking from his mother.

Everything tasted just as good as it smelled, and their conversation was cheerful and upbeat; it was unlike any dinner Calista had ever been to. She thought the holiday feasts at Hogwarts came the closest, but this was much smaller, and much  _ closer _ .

She saw Terry squirrelling sprouts off the table and hiding them in his lap, and she nearly laughed, because it reminded her so fiercely of Draco; she wondered if he also collected Chocolate Frog Cards and wanted his vegetables to taste like chocolate.

The most amazing thing, to Calista, was that, even for their mutual teasing,  everyone around the table really seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with each other, and that included  _ her _ , suddenly, as well. Gerald had ended up telling them all about Lockhart’s class, and had prompted her to tell them all about their ongoing speculations as to what sorts of sandwiches might beat him in a duel, and they had all carried the joke on from there, laughing sometimes uproariously.

“Honestly,” Chadwick had said, shaking his head, “Can’t believe that bloke was in Ravenclaw. Ashamed of it, really.”

“Come on now, he can’t have been  _ that _ bad,” Mira protested. “His books got a lot of things right, after all, even if he  _ does _ sound awfully self-absorbed.”

“Oh, come on, don’t defend him,” Chadwick said, “Everyone knows by now all he did was get the stories from the people that really did all those things and claim the credit. You just think he’s _handsome_ , don't you?”

“That’s not it,” Mira said, blushing and fidgeting in a manner that clearly indicated that was  _ precisely _ it.

“Well, she’s not exactly alone,” Calista pointed out, “Nearly every girl at school was practically throwing themselves at him, last year; it was sickening.”

“ _ Nearly _ every girl?” Chadwick raised a brow, “So not you, then?”

Calista snorted. “Definitely not.”

“See?” Chadwick said, nudging Mira playfully, “That’s how you’re  _ supposed _ to act about other men, in front of yours. Gerry’s girl gets it.”

“You can criticise me as soon as you take down that poster of Mindy Moonlight you’ve got hanging up in your bedroom.”

“Never. Mindy and I have something special.”

“Seriously, Chadwick?” Gerald made a face. “ _ That’s _ who you’ve got a poster of?”

“You’re bloody right it is,” Chadwick said, good-naturedly, “And I’m not ashamed of it. We didn’t all have our childhood crushes on  _ Rowena Ravenclaw,  _ you know.”

Gerald flushed bright red, almost immediately. “I never should’ve told you that.”

Calista tried — admittedly not very hard — and failed to suppress a chuckle. “Really?”

“She was known for being clever,” Gerald said defensively, “She was also the first Chocolate Frog card I ever got.”

“And?” Chadwick prodded, with a grin; Terry’s now matched it.

Gerald turned a brighter shade of red. “And I thought her picture was pretty,” he admitted, grudgingly. “I liked her hair.”

“Oi,” Terry said, brightly, “I just realised how much that explains. Look at the girl he finally went after — a swotty Prefect like him, with  _ long black hair _ .”

It was Calista’s turn to flush slightly now; “Hey!” Gerald said, but his mother’s voice carried louder.

“Terry! How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling your brother — and his friends — names?”

“Once more, evidently,” Terry grinned; then, under his mother’s stern gaze, he quailed. “Fine, sorry. About calling Calista a swot, I mean. Not about calling Gerry one.”

Gerald emitted a long-suffering sigh. “Calista, do you recall the Latin rune for ‘annoying’? I think I’m in need of it, just now.”

“Gerald, dear —” their mother started, but Mira interrupted, suddenly.

“Oh! Speaking of runes, Gerry, I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you!” she said, brightly, “Artie Pidgenstock’s finally retring next month.”

“Oh,” Gerald said; he shifted, uncomfortably. “Thats… erm, that’s interesting.”

“Mira works in the Runes and Symbols Department at the Ministry,” Chadwick explained, looking at Calista, “We’ve been trying to get Gerald in for an interview for months, but old Pidgenstock’s been hanging on forever.”

“You are still interested, right?” Mira asked, earnestly, “I’ve already talked you up to my boss, and he definitely wants you to come in and talk to him.”

“Erm — yes, it’s an excellent option,” Gerald said; Calista saw a familiar transition take place on his features, as they shifted from pinched concern to carefully blank, and placid. “Perhaps I will meet with him.”

“I’ll have him owl you, to set up an interview,” Mira said, as if it had been settled.

The dinner continued, with nearly everyone taking second helpings - Gerald’s mother really was a gifted cook. Calista, though, found that she couldn’t quite shake a certain queasy, worried feeling that had found its way to the pit of her stomach, a familiar and unwelcome acquaintance.

She kept stealing glances at Gerald, who seemed intent, suddenly, on avoiding her gaze.

Chadwick and Mira left soon after dinner; after seeing them out, Gerald went back into the kitchen to help his mother clean up, but she shooed him back out.

“Terry can help me,” she said, kindly. “You go on and spend time with Calista. Why don’t you show her your room?”

“Stay out of my half,” Terry said, loudly, “And don’t touch any of my stuff.”

“Believe me, I have no desire to,” Gerald rolled his eyes.

“You say that,” Terry countered, “And the next thing I know, you’re trying to alphabetise my socks…”

“Now, really, how would I go about doing  _ that _ ?”

“You couldn’t,” Calista spoke up, with a small smirk, “But you  _ could _ colour-code them…”

Terry and Gerald both grinned.

“Come on, then,” Gerald said, shaking his head slightly, “I still need to give you your Christmas gift, anyway.”

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had never seen such a stark contrast in her life than the one that dominated the room Gerald shared with his younger brother.

It was a medium-sized room, with two beds, two small dressers, and three tall sets of shelves. One the near side, by the door, the shelves were cluttered with an array of gadgets, toys, books, and other things Calista could only begin to guess at the nature of; clothes were heaped on top of the dresser and spilling out of the drawers, and the bed was unmade, with more clothes and a couple of books thrown on top of it. At least the floor was clear.

“I’m still cross with him for making a mess again,” Gerald said, unhappily; he took Calista’s hand and led her to the other side of the room, where the bed was neatly made, the dresser drawers were all shut tightly and the top was clear except for a lamp and a few packages: two unfamiliar and neatly-wrapped, and the two that she’d brought.

Two of the three sets of shelves were on Gerald’s side of the room, and though they were both utterly crammed with books, they were very neatly kept. Calista could see immediately that they were arranged by subject, and then alphabetically by author. She recognised quite a few titles on one set of shelves, and none, at first, on the other. She finally recognised one book, the one he’d given her for Christmas last year, and realised the second set held Muggle books.

“You can borrow any of them, if you want,” Gerald said, and then he released her hand, “Actually — wait, before you go looking through, I want you to open your gift.”

He took the two unfamiliar packages off the dresser, and handed an obviously book-shaped one to her. “I got you a broomstick, too,” he teased. She grinned, and started to unwrap the package.

“Oh!” Calista felt her face light up, when she saw the cover. “This is fantastic — I didn’t even realise he’d come out with another one, I would have bought it immediately if I’d known.”

It was another book by Syrio Sparkman, the author of the Patronus book they’d both learned from, the first one he’d ever lent her — this one was called  _ A Guard in the Night: Occlumency and the Patronus Charm. _

Gerald was grinning now, too. “I knew you would have,” he said, “That’s why I wanted to keep you out of the bookstore, in Hogsmeade.”

She opened the back cover, automatically flipping to the index, and began to peruse it.

“These are just biscuits,” Gerald said, holding up the other package, a small tin. “I made them yesterday, and I thought you might want to take some home.”

Calista glanced up, guiltily, from her new book. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realise what I was doing…”

“No, it’s all right,” Gerald was still smiling, and now he blushed slightly, too. “I’m glad you like the book — besides, I still think it’s… erm, very attractive, that you do that, too. The index.”

She felt her cheeks growing warm, too, and she closed the cover of the book with a bit of reluctance. “I got so caught up, I almost forgot to give you  _ your _ gifts…”

She set her unwrapped packages down beside the ones she’d brought for him, and handed him the oddly-shaped, softer package first.

Gerald looked a bit puzzled, as he pulled out a pair of blue gloves, identical to the ones he’d lent her except that these were brand-new.

“I, erm… decided to keep the other ones, if that’s all right,” Calista said, a bit shyly, “I’ve been keeping them… well, under my pillow, like you said you did with my ribbon, and…”

Gerald’s expression was no longer puzzled, but quite pleased.

“And it’s working, I think,” Calista admitted. Suppressing an embarrassed scowl, she snatched the other package, the book, and watched him unwrap that.

He was more careful than she had been, even though her wrapping job wasn’t nearly as good as his.

“No,” Gerald said, and his fingers were trembling, suddenly, as he fingered the front cover of the small, leather-bound book, stamped in gold foil on the front with the title:  _ Shining Charmour: Experimenting with the Shield Charm.  _ ”This isn’t… you didn’t find…”

“You like it, then?”

He turned to the back cover, and opened to the index, as if to confirm something; a folded sheet of parchment fluttered out, and nearly fell; Calista reached out and caught it, stepping quite close to him to do so.

“I’ve been looking for this book for ages,” Gerald said, finger still jumping slightly as it followed lines of text down the page. “It was a limited printing, no one has a copy anymore…”

“Well,” Calista said, a bit slyly, “Now  _ you _ do.”

“Have I ever even  _ mentioned _ this book to you?”

Calista’s smile grew even slyer. “You’re not the only one who can peek at someone’s notes. You had a sheet with list of references, in the back of your Rune Compendium, the last time you brought it over my house. I may have… erm, copied the titles down, to see if I could find any you might not be able to. And then… I did find one.”

“This is amazing…  _ you’re —” _

“There’s one more thing,” Calista said, and she unfolded the sheet of parchment, covering the index page with it; she held her breath, waiting for his reaction…

It was the thing she’d been working on, and had stopped until she’d received his letter, recounting how he had fallen for her. She’d just finished it that evening, right before she’d written back to him.

She’d drawn a Chocolate Frog card, copying the design from one she’d borrowed from Draco, but she’d added her own text and image. She had gone over it so many times, making sure it was just right, that she could remember the text by heart.

_ Gerald Chadwick Boot. b. August 29, 1975 _

_ A gifted spellcaster and inventor, Gerald Boot is perhaps best known for creating the Armour Charm, a complex charm which guards the target against the effects of malicious spells for a set period of time relative to the spellcaster’s skill. The Armour Charm has quickly become a favoured tool of Aurors, and is credited with saving many lives and avoiding many potential injuries. _

_ In addition to his spellcrafting achievements, Gerald Boot is also known for his extensive knowledge of a variety of runic languages. He was a Ravenclaw Prefect, and was Hogwarts’ Head Boy during the 1992-1993 academic year. _

She had drawn a sketch of him, too, though admittedly she didn’t think it really did him justice, where the portrait on the card was meant to go. And… she had added one other, very small thing.

“Calista,” Gerald said, quietly, looking up from the sheet of parchment at last, “This is…”

She was surprised, by the depth of emotion in his face; perhaps especially in contrast to the carefully blank look he’d adopted earlier that evening, at the dinner table.

“This is the sweetest thing I can imagine,” he said, sincerely, “All of it. The book, and this… there’s only one thing wrong with it.”

She frowned, slightly. “What?”

He held her gaze “The Chocolate Frog Card. It doesn’t mention my — “ he swallowed. “My favourite rune. I imagine… I imagine that if I were to accomplish so many impressive things, I’d have it at my side, throughout all of it…”

Calista felt her mouth stretching into a very bright smile. “Well,” she said, “If you look carefully…”

She lifted her hand, and pointed just above the shoulder of the drawn portrait, where a tiny, sketched hummingbird fluttered in the air.

“ _ Mon colibri _ ,” Gerald murmured; he tucked the drawing into the back of the book neatly, and very carefully closed the cover. He set it down on top of the dresser, next to the book and the tin of biscuits that he’d given her, and then, gently, he reached for Calista, mindful as always not to startle her, though he very rarely had that effect on her, anyway.

He put one arm at her waist, and with the other, he brushed a curl of hair over her shoulder, and then ran his fingers very lightly along the line of her jaw, from ear to chin.

“Calista,  _ mon coeur,  _ I lo —”

She felt panic bubbling up, suddenly, in her gut; he couldn’t say it, not when he didn’t know…

She had a flash of a vision, of him finding out about her scars, and turning away from her, taking back the very thing he was about to say, and she knew that it would be a hundred times worse for him to say it, and then revoke it, than for him to never say it at all.

“I knew you would,” she interrupted, quickly, before he could finish his sentence, “And I love the book you gave me, too.”

“That’s not —” Gerald started to say, and then he stopped; perhaps he’d read something in her eyes, or perhaps he’d lost his nerve. His own eyes flickered, briefly, with something very close to sadness, and Calista felt it practically pulling her own heart out of her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly, pressing her palm flat against the left side of his chest, over his heart; she could feel it beating. “I’m… I’m trying…”

She exhaled, and then: “I can’t stop myself from thinking that if you knew  _ everything _ , you wouldn’t feel the same about me.”

“Calista, you’ve got to know that’s not true.”

His eyes, behind the frames of his glasses, were warm and still slightly hurt; his expression was steadfast and sincere as ever; her heart quickened its pace even further… insanely, absurdly, part of her wanted to just  _ tell him _ , and the same part of her even dared to hope that his words were true, that he would still say the thing she knew he’d been about to say, even after telling him all of it; even after telling him the things Bellatrix had made her do, and the particular pattern she had carved on her skin.

“You can’t promise that, when you don’t know the sorts of things…”

“Then tell me,” he said, and his jaw set stubbornly, “Tell me, so I can prove you wrong, and still tell you that  _ I  _ —”

“Why don’t you want to go for the Runes and Symbols interview?” she cut in, almost desperately, “It would be perfect for you.”

Gerald swallowed again. “I know it would,” he said, heavily, “And you know why I can’t… and I can’t talk about it here, because you’re the only one I’ve told. And.” he shook his head, and slightly loosened his arm around her waist, though he didn’t let go; his other hand was still lightly at her chin. “We  _ both _ know you’re changing the subject.”

“And now, so are you,” Calista murmured. And then:

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you one thing, a… an important thing. A big thing. One of the things I’m afraid to tell you…”

“And?”

“Let me talk to my father, about what’s going on with yours,” Calista said, “I’ll ask him not to interfere, if that’s what you want, but I want to ask his advice.”

Gerald was struggling with the decision; a significant portion of her expected, and wanted, for him to say no; but after a few seconds, he nodded.

“All right.”

_ Shit.  _ That meant she actually had to follow through on her end.

“I…” she looked away from him. She couldn’t look at him, in case his reaction was exactly what she had been afraid it would be, all along.

Distantly, she could hear the sound of water running, and of dishes clanking together, in the kitchen. She paused, half-listening, and half-hoping that Terry or their mother would barge into the room, and interrupt them, or that the clock would magically shift forward another hour, and it would be time for her to go. Neither of those things happened, so she took another deep breath.

“The dreams I’ve been having,” she forced the words out; it was like pulling a long string of heavy stones, out of her gut: it was difficult, and it hurt, but with each word, some of the burden inside her lessened, and left the hollow absence of weight in its place. “Especially the one that made me start a fight with you, at the Three Broomsticks, just so I had a reason to stop talking about it… they’re about things that really happened. But not the things you already know…”

Both of his hands shifted, coming to rest, steadying, on her shoulders, though he didn’t move any further away; they still stood, nearly pressed together, with perhaps a finger’s breadth of space between them.

“They’re about curses she used on me,” she said; she dared a glance at his face, which held mingled affection and concern. She didn’t know what she would do, if she saw horror suddenly take its rightful place within the mix. Suddenly, drawing this out seemed unbearable, if that  _ was  _ what was going to happen.

“She used to use the Unforgiveable Curses on me,” she said, quickly and quietly and in a voice utterly and deliberately devoid of emotion, “Two out of three of them, anyway — and as I’m still alive, I suppose you can guess which two.”

She felt Gerald’s body stiffen; his grip on her shoulders tightened. She couldn’t look at his face, so she focused instead on her hand, still pressed against his heart. Her aunt had painted her fingernails red, to match the dress, and it seemed like an absurd thing to be focusing on, but it was a  _ safe _ thing to focus on…

“That’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard,” Gerald said, tightly, “And now I’m angrier than ever at the rest of your family, for not doing anything to stop it — but  _ how _ could you think that would make me think any less of  _ you _ ?”

“The Imperius curse,” she said, hollowly; she had already gone this far, after all. “I’m not immune, you know. It — if you haven’t been put under it, you can’t understand — it doesn’t matter if you  _ want _ to do the things they tell you to or not, you  _ have  _ to, and —”

“Yes,” he said, a bit darkly, “I understand how the curse works. I understand why using it on another person merits a life sentence in Azkaban. I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to make me feel any differently about you.”

“She made me do things…”

“Calista, I know that being made to do  _ anything _ against your will like that is horrific.” It was the second time he’d used the word, that night. His tone was still decidedly grim, but he had not let go of her, even when she tried now, half-heartedly, to slip out of his grasp. "I’ve heard enough about her to know anything  _ she  _ made you do had to be even more so — but…”

He shifted one of his hands, ran it up her neck, and cupped her jaw, turning her face gently to his, so that she could no longer avoid his gaze.

“Whatever it was, you didn’t do it,” he told her, very firmly; she had never seen his eyes look so fiercely determined, or his jaw set so decisively. “She did it. Not you.”

“What if she made me kill someone?” Calista challenged; she’d given up on trying to understand why she always needed to make things as difficult as possible for herself.

“Then  _ she _ — killed someone,” Gerald said, voice cracking slightly; his expression did not waver, though. “Not you.”

She softened; she felt a familiar sting pressing around the edges of her eyes, but she knew she wasn’t going to cry.

“It wasn’t that,” she said, listlessly. “I mean… she tried that, but of course it didn’t work. The curse can’t give you the ability to cast a spell, if you don’t already have it.”

Something seemed to click for Gerald, far quicker than she had even put it together, herself, long ago.

“That’s why you were afraid you were a Squib, when you were younger, isn’t it?” he asked her quietly, “You couldn’t do any of the awful things she tried to make you do…”

“No,” she said, surprised at how thorny her voice came out, “I couldn’t do any of the  _ spells _ … the other awful things…”

Gerald frowned; and then, he shifted his hold on her, again, placing one hand at the centre of her back; gently, he guided her over to one of the sets of bookshelves. 

It struck Calista that his hand had to be almost precisely where the scars were, underneath the fancy dress she wore, underneath the light camisole she had on beneath it. If only he knew… she wondered if he’d still put his hand there. It wasn’t the  _ first _ time it had struck her that it didn’t bother her, didn’t make her start, when he  _ did _ touch her, there.

He plucked a book out; he seemed to know precisely which one he was going for. With his free hand, he opened it, seemingly at random, and then he shifted again, took his hand from her back and took her hand up with it instead; he wrapped his fingers over hers, securely — and then, he curled both their fingers around the corner of the page, and tore it straight out of the book.

“Hey! What did you do that for?” Calista asked, bewildered.

“Exactly,” Gerald said, easing the book shut with one hand; he kept his grip on her hand, and on the torn page, with the other, and he turned so they were facing each other again, joined hands between them. “It was your hand, but  _ I  _ did it; it’s the same, with whatever she did to you.”

She felt a strange, unbalanced feeling in her gut; she realised, after a few seconds, that it was another weight, being lifted away.

“I really never thought of it that simply,” she admitted; her voice came out light, trembling, somewhere between hysterical and giddy.

“Well, I do,” he said; he set the book down, on the edge of the shelf, and opened her fingers, taking the torn page and setting it down, too.

“Now,” he said, taking up both of her hands in his, “Am I allowed to say it?”

_Yes,_ she wanted to tell him, _And I love you, too._ _More every minute than the minute before._

“No,” she whispered, instead; for the first time in a long time, she imagined she could feel the scars pulsing, the heat of the wretched lines branding her skin. At least she knew it was only her imagination; once, it had been real. “It’s still not everything. It’s still not the worst thing.”

He frowned, pulling her closer to him by their joined hands. “You won’t tell me any more, today, will you?”

She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”

He swallowed, and nodded. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, and then: “It’s like the poems, though, Calista. Even if I don’t send you the words… I’ve still written them. And I still mean them.”

Now she did feel a lump in her throat, and the sting in her eyes was ominous.

“I…” she started;  _ she _ could say it, and she could still stop him from saying it back… “I…”

She swallowed. She couldn’t do it. “I’ll forgive you for the poems,” she said, instead. “If you’ll kiss me, right now.”

“That’s the easiest bargain we’ve ever made,” he murmured, and he did, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his lips to hers, soft and sweet and somehow full of the words that she hadn’t allowed either one of them to say.

The imagined pain of the scars faded away, as other sensations took over — the feel of his mouth, certainly, and the warmth of being so close to him; the skittering of one, or both, of their heartbeats — she lost track — and something  _ else _ , something she’d alluded to earlier that morning, when talking to her aunt; a simmering vibration that came from somewhere inside her and made her want to do things she’d been afraid of, before.

“Gross!”

For the second time that day, Calista and Gerald were startled apart, by his younger brother’s appearance at the door.

“Mum, Gerry’s snogging his girlfriend  _ in my room _ ,” they could hear him yell in aggrieved tones, even as he trod away.

“I think,” Gerald said, sounding every bit as aggrieved as Terry, “I need to start saving up for my own flat.”

Calista chuckled, vaguely uneasy now that they had separated; she was instinctively regretting what she’d told him, and trying to remind herself she didn’t need to regret it, because it had turned out fine. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” she managed, “It’s probably about time for me to go.”

Gerald turned his wrist, glancing at his watch, and then nodded, unhappily. “I’ll take you back,” he said. And then: “I miss you already.”

“I know. Me too.” She exhaled. ”Gerald? Can you do  — one thing, for me?”

“Of course,” he said, “Anything.”

“Go to the interview,” she said, “In Mira’s office. Please.”

“I don’t know if anything can come of it,” he said, grimly; but then, perhaps quailing under her gaze, he nodded. “But I promise I’ll go.”


	13. Chapter 13

When the students returned from the Christmas break, the seventh years were given the dates for the Ministry visits; they were to be spread over three Mondays in January, with a third of the students going in each group; they'd been split up alphabetically, which meant, to Calista's relief, that she would be in the same group as Amelia and Percy; Percy was less thrilled when he realised that meant he would not go on the same day as Penny.

Calista hadn't been nervous about the trip until her conversation with her uncle over the break; a conversation that, when she'd recounted it to her father upon her return to the castle, had made his eyes narrow suspiciously in a way that made her think she'd been right to be wary, at the time.

"Perhaps he simply wants to help you," her father had said, during one of their Legilimency lessons, when she'd told him as much of the conversation as she could remember; his tone implied that he didn't think this scenario was particularly likely, "Or, perhaps he has another agenda that we are unaware of. I would not be surprised if any position he offered to help you gain at the Ministry turned out to be a position that would benefit himself, as well."

"Like what?" Calista had asked, finger tracing familiar runic patterns. " _Recludo_."

"Who knows?" he'd responded, "A certain permit office, perhaps? An office where he'd like to have eyes, and doesn't currently? I'm not suggesting you dismiss his offer of help, but I'd be careful about placing yourself in his debt, until you understand what he expects in return. Perhaps I needn't be warning you, though; it seems your instincts in the situation were quite keen."

She remembered smiling, at that; a thing that was beginning to happen more and more, since… well, since she'd decided to be more honest with both her father and with Gerald. And — she couldn't forget — also since she'd been working on the Patronus project that Professor Lupin had assigned her.

"It might be keen instinct," she'd agreed, "Or it might simply be that I've been very well taught.  _Paellegus. Intellego._ "

_A long, twisting corridor, in the earth. He crept along it, wand up and lit, but it was still dark as night, beyond where the wandlight would reach._

' _I'm going to find out what you're up to, with all the sneaking around,' a voice like Severus' said/, only it was a bit higher, a bit uncertain, and a lot more afraid than Calista had ever known him to sound, 'The Headmaster will have to listen, then —"_

The window into her father's mind squeezed itself closed again, and she was forced back out.

"Try again," her father had insisted, but she'd shaken her head; it was no use, once the inevitable headache started. She had to remember to keep the window open, next time, if she ever wanted to make it to the end of that memory.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista met with Flitwick a couple of times to go over her essays; he handed her three of them back, suggesting the best material for the article should be pulled from them.

"You speculate frequently, which is excellent when you're exploring the subject, but you'll need to tighten it up, so to speak, for publication," he'd advised her, "I would keep only the things you've directly experimented with, and the research relating to the rituals and runes you've adapted personally."

Armed with that advice, and with a few recently published sample articles from research journals, she had been painstakingly re-working the selected essays into a single piece. Along the way, she found additional resources, as Professor Flitwick had also cautioned her that her research would need to be impeccably cited; they absolutely  _would_ check the references before publishing anything.

Admittedly, rewriting and reformatting her previous research wasn't as fun or exciting as conducting new research, especially when she'd been warned away from outright conjecture, but she only had to imagine being appointed to the Committee for Experimental Charms someday to keep her motivation high; she worked diligently, and didn't complain on either of the occasions that Professor Flitwick suggested further edits.

Her other special project wasn't going quite as well, despite additional sources on that front as well. She read the new Sparkman book three times over, and though she'd made some interesting notes, she still wasn't able to produce much more than a wisp of silver, for her efforts, whenever she tried the Patronus Charm.

At least now that she'd admitted her Patronus was gone to her father, she could practise with him, too, and she didn't need to hide her research into it.

She had finally told her friends, too, though she hadn't been specific as to why it had gone. Still, they hadn't laughed and even Percy hadn't scolded her too harshly for not telling them before. She was now practising with Penny and Percy sometimes, too, but it was hard not to be discouraged when their efforts were progressing faster than hers were, so she still preferred, most of the time, to practise alone.

That didn't mean, however, that she practised without encouragement. There was another letter, besides the one with the runes, that she had taken to keeping with her a lot of the time, and that she often read before practising the charm. It was one of the first ones he had sent her, after she'd returned to Hogwarts, following the Christmas break, when she'd worried about the ripped book.

_Mon beau colibri,_

_Please don't worry about the book; I chose one that I knew I had a second copy of. I'll tell you that first, because I know that's what will make you feel better about it, but here's the other reason that it didn't bother me, as it normally would, to deface a book: a book can (nearly) always be replaced. It doesn't have feelings, and it can't feel pain — none of which can be said for you. I ripped the book because I thought it might be a way to show you something that I hoped would take away some of the pain I could see you were feeling. I'd burn a whole library down if it would take all of your pain away; but of course, that's not realistic, and I suppose the truth is that you would not be you without it, just I wouldn't be precisely me without mine. Since I know how deeply both of us would mourn the destruction of so many books, I suppose it's not a very romantic analogy, but I want you to know how sincere I am, in my affection for you._

_Speaking of romance, I am beginning to wonder if I have converted you, after all, to my way of thinking; even if you still stubbornly refuse to allow me to send you poetry, I think perhaps you have begun to embrace it (ha) in other ways: some of your letters, your keeping my gloves, and most of all, your wonderful Christmas gift. I confess, I sometimes find it difficult to concentrate on the text of the book, when your drawing falls out of it. I look instead at the little hummingbird you drew over my shoulder, and I can think only of the next time that you will be at my side again. I do think I prefer you, though, as a girl rather than as a bird, or even as a rune._

_You'll be pleased to know that I did go in and speak with Mira's boss, at the Department of Runes and Symbols. Even though I don't know if I would be able to take the position, at the moment, if it were offered, I tried to present myself at my best, and I think the meeting went well. I now have a proper interview arranged on a Monday afternoon, the 24th of January, with multiple representatives of the Ministry._

_Have you learned the date for your Ministry visit yet? I would like to try my best to see you, even if it's only for my lunch break. I might even be able to take a little bit of extra time; one of my co-workers, Ferada, is your roommate's mother, and she seemed pleased when she realised the girlfriend I'm always going on about is you; I think she'd agree to cover the register for me, so I could see you._

_Mon coeur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

Re-reading his letters often made her smile, and this one did so even more than perhaps any of the others: there were only two things in it that she didn't like. One of them was that his job interview was the same day and time as her Ministry visit, so it would be difficult for them to arrange to meet; the other was that she had to grudgingly admit to herself that he was right, about the romance; gods help her, she  _was_  starting to vastly enjoy it — though she  _still_  drew the line at verse.

It was an interesting coincidence, too, that Gerald was working with Emily's mother, because she and Emily were getting somewhat friendly again, of late. It was hard not to, when they were paired for their Potions project. Emily still was loathe to speak to her much in front of Portia and Olivia, but Calista had noticed that Emily seemed to be spending less and less time with the two of them, though she was evidently still doing homework for them, as Calista had still seen her in the common room with three lengths of parchment set out.

Emily seemed to be talking to some different people, as well, lately. She'd seen her studying a few times in the library with one of Amelia and Penny's roommates, a seventh-year Ravenclaw named Julie Goldstein, despite Olivia's frequent demands that  _her_  friends not befriend anyone in other houses. Once, she'd even seen Emily engaged in a friendly conversation with George Spratt, and Olivia and Portia  _definitely_  wouldn't have approved of that, even if he was in Slytherin.

It was nice to see, and it was nice, actually, working with Emily in class, even if they had  _still_  not managed to measurably expand on the shelf-life of a blood-replenishing potion after attempting more than twenty variants. Calista had been exasperated enough to suggest that they give up, and change their project, but Emily had one more surprise, it seemed: determination.

"No," Emily had said, when Calista suggested they choose a new topic, "Some things take a very long time to get right, but that doesn't meant that they're not worth doing."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

"Imagine that your barriers are guarding more than just your mind," Severus instructed, during their second Defence lesson after the Christmas break, "Imagine that they are guarding  _you_ , from outside influence. Retreat to the second layer of your mind, if you must; contain the curse within the first layer, and you will be able to resist it, but will still understand the intention behind it."

She had managed, at the end of their first lesson, to resist obeying his commands when under the Imperius Curse, but the practice had left her feeling foggy, slow, and uncertain for almost an hour after throwing it off, and she could only vaguely recall what she'd been asked to do while under it, a feeling that unsettled both of them. Severus had cautiously shared that he'd heard that the curse's effect could build, over many uses.

It was possible, he had told her, that by being placed under it so many times when she was younger, it may have created a greater post-reaction to it than normal, which meant they would need to try alternate methods of resistance, to avoid the leftover effects and partial memory loss.

Calista nodded now, uncertainly, and took a steadying breath. Even though what she was being asked to do was second-nature for her when it came to practising Occlumency, it felt so strange to apply it to this purpose; and, admittedly, it felt very unpleasantly strange to be subjected to that dreaded curse again, after all this time.

"It's better this way, anyway," Severus said, undoubtedly an attempt to reassure her, "This way, you can learn to resist it and still have the option of appearing not to resist."

"What do you mean?"

"You can see resistance to the curse in the eyes, normally," Severus told her, "An… ah,  _experienced_  caster often knows if the target is fighting the curse. I could see you fighting it last time."

"Does that mean you're…" she couldn't finish the question; she realised she didn't really want to know the answer.

"I have a great deal of experience reading signs in your face," he said silkily, a non-answer. She decided to be satisfied with it, for now.

"Now," he said, lifting his wand, again, "Are you ready?"

She nodded, doing as he suggested, and sheltering most of her psychic core in the second layer of her mind; she left a few reaching tendrils in the first, so she could properly monitor the memories there. Now that she had the habit of being, always, on the lookout for a legilmens' intrusion, she could not break herself of maintaining it.

" _Imperio_ ," he intoned, and she could feel the wave of the spell's influence begin to overtake her immediately; but he was right, it started at the outer edges of her mind, and tried to slink its way throughout. She concentrated on maintaining her second barrier, holding the curse there as if it were a sentient intruder.

The tendrils of her consciousness that she had left in the front section of her mind were assaulted by its influence:  _Go to the bookshelf_ , it hissed at her,  _Steal one of the books; take it away with you._

It was an unpleasantly strange feeling, having those pieces of her mind taken over so utterly and completely; the curse seemed to cover all of the thoughts and memories in the section of her mind it had invaded, so that she could only see their shapes. It was unsettling, not to recognise part of her own mind, not to have any control over it.

But the  _rest_  of her mind, where she sheltered behind the second barrier was intact, and rational, and because she had kept most of her core protected, it was almost absurdly easy to resist, now, to remain precisely where she stood.

"That's very good," her father murmured, "I can feel your mind, at the other end of the curse, and I don't see the signs of resistance in your eyes."

"It feels awful," she managed, concentrating on maintaining the barrier. The affected portion of her mind felt so foreign that it  _was_  a bit like having someone attack her with legilimency; the experience, in fact, was reminding her powerfully of her Uncle Lucius' intrusions, over the break. She could resist, but it felt so slimy and uncomfortable that she wanted to scream.

"I don't doubt it," her father said, a bit grimly, "But you're resisting; that's the purpose of this."

Finally, he released her from the spell; the relief was so immense that it made her tremble, slightly. Slowly, she allowed her memories and her consciousness, to return to their normal state.

"Now," he asked, "How do you feel?"

She took a mental inventory; it still felt strange, the memories that had been touched; it was like the curse had momentarily erased them, and they were just now beginning to fade back into reality. But she  _had_ managed to protect the majority of her mind, and all of her important memories.

"Part of my mind still feels weak, and fogged. Kind of… faded, I suppose. The parts that the curse touched, in the first layer of my mind. But overall… I think I feel much better than I did, the last time."

"And do you recall what you were told to do, under the curse's influence?"

She nodded. "Steal one of your books."

He nodded, too, grimly satisfied. "That's enough for today, I think. We'll practise this method a few more weeks, until you feel confident you can reliably resist."

"I just wonder if it would be different," she said, hesitantly; it was something that had been bothering her since the last session, something that had been playing at the edges of her mind, "If you were asking me to do something I  _really_  didn't want to do. You've only been setting me to do fairly innocuous things…"

"You wonder if the curse's effect on you differs now from when you were younger because of the nature of what you're being asked to do?" he said, shrewdly, "You think perhaps that is why you can resist, now?"

"Well, yes, I suppose that is what I'm wondering."

He shook his head. "The effectiveness of the curse is affected by precisely two things," he said, "The strength of the cast, and the strength of the mind it is used upon. That is  _all_ , Calista. There are no other mitigating factors, and after our lesson in the woods —"

She suppressed the image of the bleeding rat only with great effort; she could feel it wanting to writhe and twist its way into the forefront of her mind.

"I will not risk giving you another reason to punish yourself," he finished, quietly and firmly. "I will not attempt to make you do anything that might inspire you to do so; Please do not ask me again."

"So we're still holding off on revisiting that curse, then?" she asked, softly, " _Sectumsempra?_ "

"I have not asked you to attempt it again; I will not, until I am confident that doing so won't damage your opinion of yourself."

"You were adamant, at first, that I keep practising," she reminded him.

"I would not have been, if I had known about your Patronus."

"I lost my Patronus before the — before that thing," she reminded him, hurriedly, "It wasn't because of that."

Even though she was still cross with him for making her attempt that spell, she didn't want him thinking that her losing her Patronus was his fault — at least, it wasn't his fault any more than it was hers, for both of them thinking she would handle the returned memories better than she had.

"Had I been aware of its absence," he told her, and it struck her that he was trying very hard to keep his voice even, and emotionless; the same thing  _she_  did when she was afraid of what emotion might leak through her tone, "I would have understood that something was wrong. I would have known, perhaps, that you were already turning on yourself again, without any help from me."

"You always say I need to learn to defend myself," she said; she didn't know why she felt the need, again, to challenge him. "You always  _insisted_  I had to learn whatever spells you decided on, no matter if I liked it or not. Until now."

"That's true," he said, and then: "I had forgotten, I suppose, that the strongest enemy one needs to defend against is sometimes oneself."

He looked at her very shrewdly, then, very intently. And then:

"I did not think that was a thing I could ever forget."

"I don't think either of us ever will, now," she said; suddenly, she felt incredibly sad, even though she couldn't quite articulate why.

They regarded each other in silence a moment; and then, decisively, Severus waved his wand at the kitchen table, and a plate of sandwiches appeared.

"Stay here, for the afternoon," he said; it wasn't a command, but it struck her that it sounded strangely like a plea. "We'll have lunch, and perhaps we will talk, some more. It strikes me that until very recently, we haven't been doing enough of it."

"I think that's because neither one of us is very good at doing it when we need to," she said, a bit thorny; even now, she felt as if she'd already said too much.

"Then perhaps we will simply sit at the table, and sneer at each other, for the afternoon," her father said, and despite the bite in his words, both of them had smirks, now, playing at the corners of their mouths, "But we'll do so together."

"I can't argue with that," she said.

"Oh, I imagine you could."

They were both smiling, then. She took her usual seat at the table, and picked up one of the sandwiches. She realised she was actually quite hungry.

She had been considering, in the weeks after the Christmas break, how to approach the conversation she wanted to have with him about Gerald's problem with his own father. She had a feeling that he might be nearly as disturbed by the situation as she was, and she knew that there was a decent chance he would attempt to take some sort of action, himself; she would not put it past him to threaten Gerald's father, especially if he thought there was any chance that whatever he was doing to Gerald might affect  _her_.

She had to be careful, that he did not decide to act, because Gerald had pressed her, in more than one of his letters, not to.

 _I'm afraid that attacking him or making him angry will just ensure he finds a new target_ , he had written some variation of, several times now,  _I can't risk him doing something to hurt Terry, after I've spent all this time protecting him._

Her concerns in this vein were why she had held off, so far, from asking his advice. Suddenly, over the familiar table where they still sat, after swiftly demolishing the sandwiches, it seemed like the perfect time; especially with Gerald's job interview coming up next week. She didn't think she could bear it if he had to turn another offer down, because of his wretched father's influence over him.

She rose, and went to the coffeepot, silently brewing the second batch of the day; they'd already finished a pot between them at breakfast, but now that she'd resolved to have this particular conversation, she couldn't imagine having it without coffee.

She poured two mugs, when it had finished brewing, and set one down in front of her father.

"Thank you; dare I ask what it is that you want?"

She managed a smirk, as she slid back into her usual place.

"Does it always mean I want something, when I do something nice?"

"Not always; but usually."

"Nothing gets past you," she said, and she took a sip of her coffee, and then set the mug down, fingers still wrapped around it, as always. "It's actually just advice I'm after. Not really for me. For… well, for Gerald."

He quirked a brow, and she took that as in invitation to continue.

"The thing is, though, I need…  _just_  advice. It's… I had to promise that you wouldn't try to intervene, if I told you what's going on, for him to say it was all right to ask you."

"I'm not liking the sound of this at all," he said, silkily.

"There's no danger," she reminded him of what she'd promised before, "Definitely not to me, anyway. It's just… " she swallowed. "Please just listen, all right? And… and promise you'll only give me advice, you won't try to fix anything."

He frowned, and picked up his mug. And then: "Assuming your reassurances are true, regarding danger, then I suppose I can agree to that. Go on."

She exhaled, gathering her thoughts. "All right. So… you know that there are certain…  _things_  that Gerald and I have in common…"

"I assume you're not referencing your mutual interest in runes," he said, drily. She shook her head.

"No, I'm not. I think you know what I'm referencing."

She could feel the heat from her coffee mug, radiating through her palm, and it gave her the courage she needed to go on; she'd been afraid that bringing up what had happened to Gerald would remind her of what had also happened to her, and she'd been right.

She forced the images aside. She took a sip of her coffee, and kept the mug near her lips; she had a feeling she'd be needing more.

"I don't know if you realised, or guessed, that it was Gerald's father that…" she swallowed. "Used to hurt him. He — his father — went to Azkaban, too, but not… not like  _her_. Not a life sentence."

She took a long sip of coffee, willing her hand not to tremble the way it threatened to, and then she set the mug down, because it  _was_  trembling, despite her best efforts.

"He got out, after two years," Calista said, "And he started — I mean, sometimes he wants to see Gerald, or tries… tries writing to him. And he hasn't changed, he's still…"

"I don't find that part hard to believe," Severus said, quietly, and she was reminded, suddenly, of why she'd wanted to ask  _his_  advice, specifically; because she had a feeling that he, too, understood.

"Gerald doesn't want to see him," she went on, "And he doesn't want to write to him, but now he  _has_  to, because…" she realised she'd missed an important piece of the story, and backed up. "Do you know what the Obfuscation Office is?"

"I do."

"Well, they had  _that_  — Gerald's family did — so it stopped his father from finding them, or writing them, but I guess it doesn't work, if the person you're hiding from already knows where to find you. By the time he was out of Azkaban, Gerald was already at Hogwarts, and his father knew he would be, obviously, so he started writing to him, and the owls got through."

"It strikes me that Mr. Boot doesn't need to send any owls in response, if he truly doesn't wish to."

"Well, he thinks he does," she said, grimly, "I mean — it's not owls anymore, actually, it's Muggle post now, and he doesn't — we don't — know why."

"Muggle post?" Severus did seem truly surprised, by this development. "Isn't his father a wizard?"

"Yes. That's why it's odd. But he's made all these  _requests_  of Gerald — he writes him with all sorts of questions, about Gerald's family and what he's studying in school and things, and he's set all these rules for when and how often Gerald needs to write him back, and it's got to be through the Muggle post —"

Severus started. "That's why," he said, cutting her off; there was a certain urgency in his tone. "Muggle post is traceable. Even if Mr. Boot was clever enough to refrain from using a return address — and I will be terribly disappointed if he wasn't — there are other ways, unless the original order with the Obfuscation Office included coverage from the Muggle Post, which I seriously doubt, unless it was specifically requested. How long ago did he start writing? His father may already know where they are."

Despite the situation, Calista quirked a small smile. "Come on, Dad, Gerald's cleverer than that. He took out a box, at the post office. The Muggle one. And it's nowhere near where he lives, he sends the letters from Manchester, because it's near the last place their father knew to find them at."

Severus also allowed a small smile, now. "I'm relieved to hear that. I suppose I should have expected it."

"The problem is that it's interfering with his life," Calista explained, "The demands his father has set for writing back — it takes him hours, each week, to write the letters and to make the trip to Manchester two or three times, and sometimes he's too tired to Apparate safely, so he has to take the train…"

"I still fail to see why he's doing all this," Severus said, "Why doesn't he simply send his father's letters back unread?"

"He can't," she said, "Or he  _thinks_  he can't, because of… because of his brother, Terry. Gerald's afraid that if he doesn't do what his father wants, he'll start writing to Terry, instead."

Understanding lit Severus' eyes, now. "Because his brother is at Hogwarts."

She nodded. "Gerald doesn't… he doesn't tell Terry much about what things were like, back then," she said, "He thinks his brother doesn't really remember, because he's so much younger. He doesn't want Terry getting caught up in it now, when he's never had to before…"

"He fears, perhaps, that his brother would be susceptible to some sort of trap that would enable their father to learn where they are?"

She nodded. "He — once, when Gerald was thirteen or so, his father nearly tricked him into revoking the order from the Obfuscation Office."

"I believe it would need the signature of the filing party, to revoke; but I don't know for certain."

"Yes, that's how he said it's supposed to work," Calista said, "Gerald was the filing party — his mum doesn't understand wizarding things, or at least she didn't understand enough of it, back then. And now that he's of age, Gerald's afraid that they might not be as strict about that… that it might be possible for them to allow Terry to revoke the order, if he wanted to, since he's the only minor still covered under it. I think Gerald's afraid that if he lets his father write to Terry, his father will trick — or force — Terry into overturning it."

"Mr. Boot filed the order, with the Obfuscation Office?" Severus said, brow rising, "He handled the entire process — at less than thirteen years of age?"

"Yes; and he had to testify in front of the Wizengamot, when he was only ten, to get his father put away in the first place. He's… he's a very strong person."

"I suppose that helps to explain why you seem to understand each other so well, at times."

"Well… he doesn't usually see it that way; he doesn't see himself that way."

"Ah. Another thing you have in common, then," her father said shrewdly, and before Calista could protest that she wasn't particularly strong, he continued on:

"If what his father wants is to have the Obfuscation Order revoked," Calista thought she detected a dismissive sneer on the word 'father',"Why would he settle for these inane letters to his older son, instead? Why would he not have contacted the younger Boot boy already?"

"I don't know," Calista said, doubtfully. "Neither does Gerald. But… I mean, we don't really  _know_  if that's what he wants, it's all just conjecture. That's the problem. We have no idea what he's really up to."

"So that's what you're seeking advice on?" Severus queried, "What he might be after?"

"I suppose," she said, "Or how to ensure he doesn't  _get_  what he's after, if it's lifting the Order."

"Hm." Severus lifted his coffee mug, and took a long sip. He seemed to be considering the matter at length. And then, after a few moments, he spoke again.

"I assume there is no — financial motivation possible, or Mr. Boot would have already considered it as a motive," Severus speculated, "No payments the father would be able to get out of making, if the Order was lifted?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Gerald says you can't, with the protective order."

"I don't think that's accurate; but I believe the process is complicated. I don't doubt that it seemed impossible, to a young and recently traumatised boy trying to work all the details out himself."

"Gerald did the best he could," she said, a bit defensively, and Severus nodded.

"I'm certain he did. It's not a criticism; merely an observation. At any rate, it is perhaps possible that the man only wants to know his sons better, to… to somehow try and repair their relationship…"

"I don't think so," Calista said, quite darkly, "Not from what I've been told."

"I said it's  _possible_ ," Severus said, testily, "I didn't say it was  _likely_. I think Mr. Boot — Merlin, this is confusing, with three of them involved — I think  _Gerald Boot_  is a reasonably apt judge of character; if he thinks his father's motivation is malicious, it probably is. But from the sounds of it, whatever it is that his father's after, Gerald is playing right into it."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Calista said, "But we just don't  _know_  what he wants; Gerald's asked him, but of course he won't say."

"Hm," Severus said again, and then: "Tell me, does Gerald see his father in person?"

"Sometimes," she said, "When he has to. When his father demands it, basically."

"I assume they meet in a fairly public place, where Gerald can feel relatively safe, and where there are witnesses, if anything were to go awry?"

"Yes. He says they usually meet at a café in Manchester, near the post office. Gerald makes himself Untraceable, but he still checks himself for tracking spells before he leaves."

"So," Severus said, "Gerald cannot find out from his father what the man is after;  _I_ cannot attempt to find out, because you forbade me from doing so, at the beginning of this conversation."

"That's basically the situation," Calista said, unhappily.

"Yes." Severus leaned forward slightly, and eyed her intently. "It strikes me, though — "

He had such a pointed, purposeful look, that she felt her heart skip; he really looked as though he might have an answer, somehow, though she couldn't imagine what it might be.

"That perhaps," Severus continued, "If you were to accompany Mr. — damn it,  _Gerald_  — if your safety could be assured… you have a particular skillset, I think, that might allow  _you_  to determine what he's after."

Her heart started beating again, at twice its normal rate, as if it were trying to catch up. "You mean… I could use legilimency, to read his thoughts?"

Gods, it was a simple answer; why had she not thought of it herself?

 _Because his father's probably dangerous_ , her mind screamed at her,  _Because you haven't even told Gerald you're a legilimens; and because it's not exactly a popular thing to be._

Still, her heart leapt, at the notion that  _she_  might actually be able to help Gerald solve his problem.

"You would need to be  _extremely_  discreet — you would likely need to rely on the wandless version of your spell, since there will undoubtedly be Muggles around."

"You're really going to — you'd really  _let_  me do that?"

Severus fixed her with a very intense stare. "I do not teach you caution for you never to use the skills you have; I teach you caution so you will know  _when_  it is appropriate to use them."

"You don't think — you aren't afraid that Gerald's father might… that he would be cross with me, for reading his thoughts, that he might try and…"

"If you're using the skills I've taught you properly," her father said, and his voice was silky again, for all its hardness, "He won't have any idea what's happening; and as far as any desire he might have, to harm you… there are two very important points to consider."

Calista lifted her mug, and swallowed another sip of now-lukewarm coffee. "And what are they?"

"Men who are of the sort that would abuse their own children simply to feel powerful usually are not really very powerful at all," Severus said, and she could see his mouth twisting with the words, "And they know it — it is not typical that they would bully anyone that they don't feel that they are entitled to control."

She knew, in that moment, that she had been right; that to some extent, at least, he had to have been speaking from personal experience. But she could see on his face that now was not the time to ask him about it; his eyes were hard, his jaw set.

"What's the second point to consider?" she asked, cautiously.

"You have been fairly well-trained, in Defence, and you have good instincts," her father said softly, "You proved that, with Quirrell, whom I can assure you with some confidence was a skilled duelist. I don't imagine, if he feels the need to bully his own children, that this man will be much of a duelist at all. But even so, if he so much as  _thinks_  of reaching for his wand in your presence, you will disable and Disarm him; and then, you will summon me, and I will  _ensure_  that he entertains no notion of harming my daughter."

"I suppose… I suppose that makes a certain sort of sense."

"There is a third point, to consider, I think," her father said, after a few seconds of reflection.

"And what's that?"

"Gerald Boot," he said, grimly and matter-of-factly. "I expect he'd have a Shield Charm on you before you even drew your own wand. That boy would never stand to see you hurt — I think least of all from his own tormentor. In fact… I imagine the most difficult part of this whole plan will be convincing him to allow you to undertake it."

Once he'd said it, Calista realised he was right.

"I suppose," she said, "I'll have to tell him I'm a legilimens."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "You haven't, yet?"

"No; you told me I should be more selective, with who I choose to tell."

He snorted with derision. "More selective than  _Flint_." He looked at her closely, again. "He does know you're an Occlumens, yes?"

"Yes. I told him that a long time ago."

"And you know he…?"

She blinked. She knew precisely what he was getting at, even though he didn't say it. " _You_ know?"

"If you imagine I didn't try to read that boy the instant I began to suspect he harboured romantic feelings for you, then you're not half as clever as I give you credit for."

She blinked. She supposed he had a point, there.

"When… when did you  _suspect_  that, then?"

"After the first attacks last year, when I asked him to see you back to my quarters at the end of each of your shared Prefect patrols. I expected him to be annoyed, but he seemed pleased, instead."

At least that wasn't  _terribly_  long before she'd found out, herself. She wasn't quite certain why that pleased her.

"Of course, I wasn't certain until, oh, about an hour before you were," he said, "When I saw the bouquet, and gave you the correct books to decode it, yourself."

"So then… you couldn't read him."

"Not wandlessly, no, which led me to the conclusion that he is at least reasonably skilled. I didn't think either you  _or_  the Headmaster would look kindly on any other method."

"Since when does my liking a plan of yours influence whether or not you'll carry it out?" she asked, a bit sardonically.

"Don't be flippant. I would have offered to test him, to teach him, if he wasn't your friend, you know; but I knew if I did, you'd see it as an invasion of your privacy."

"Well, of  _course_  I would; especially if you didn't tell me what you were going to do, and why."

"Do you have any notion, of how skilled he is?" her father asked; he pushed his half-finished mug of what was undoubtedly now stone-cold coffee aside. "I must confess, I've always been curious."

"Not really," she said, "I mean — I can't read him accidentally, the way I did with Marcus, but… it's not like  _I've_  tested him. He reads a lot of books about Occlumency; that's how he practises. It's not really… it's not really something we talk that much about, actually. I suppose that's deliberate, on my part; I didn't want to accidentally let it slip that I'm not  _just_  an Occlumens."

"Let me guess," Severus said wryly, "You're concerned he might abandon his feelings for you, if he finds out."

She scowled. "You don't need to say it so  _derisively_. It's a valid fear."

"I doubt it. Especially not if he is as well-read on the subject as you say."

"Well," she said, frowning, "I suppose I'll  _have_  to tell him now, if I want him to agree to let me help him figure out what that miserable bastard wants from him."

Severus leaned forward again. "Calista."

"Yes?"

"It occurs to me that there is perhaps one other warning I should impart to you. Don't hurt this man unless he poses an immediate threat. I imagine you will not like the way he treats his son; but don't proactively attack him; he is not one of your classmates. There could be very real consequences for doing so."

"I think I would have figured that out without you telling me."

He lifted a brow. "Perhaps you don't understand what it is like, to encounter someone who has seriously hurt a person you care deeply about. Restraint in those situations is not as easy as you seem to think it will be."

"I know it won't be  _easy_ …"

"You really have no idea," he said, ominously; and then he stood, abruptly, and carried his mug to the sink, dumping out the cold remains.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista lined up in the Entrance Hall with her friends, stomach clenched with nerves, despite her friends' relative calm. It wasn't just the Ministry interviews she was worried about; it was Gerald's job interview, too.

She'd known immediately that she couldn't tell him in a letter about being a legilimens; she wouldn't be able to see his reaction, for one; wouldn't be able to properly explain that she had  _only_  ever used it accidentally, or defensively; wouldn't be able to reassure him that she had never, and would never, use it against him.

More to the point, of course, it would be a very foolish thing to put in writing anyway, in case the letter ever fell into the wrong hands.

Instead, she'd only written that she had spoken to her father, and had received some advice, upon which they could build a plan; she'd asked him just to hold off on turning anything  _down_  explicitly until she had a chance to speak with him in person. She did not know if he was going to follow her advice.

"Oh, good, here comes that batty Divination professor," Amelia said, breaking her out of her reverie, "We're so lucky it's her bringing us; last week, they had Professor  _Vector_ , can you imagine?"

"Children, children," Professor Trelawny trilled, as she swept into the Entrance Hall, arms spread wide, "Are we all here? Are we all ready to embark on the next, glorious phase of life?"

"I'm ready to embark on lunch," Amelia muttered, "They are going to feed us, right?"

There were some nervous mutters and titters in the crowd, but most of the students simply looked bored. A few, like Percy, were paying attention to the professor, but most of them were just looking ahead, at the doors, or talking in small groups.

"Today, my dears, you will all receive a glimpse into your own futures; and for once, you will not need to read your palm, or gaze into a crystal, in order to see it. No — today, your future will reveal itself through your  _own_  words."

She paused, and tapped the shoulder of a nervous-looking Hufflepuff girl. "You, Miss Viridian, will receive an employment offer this very afternoon; but another one you've been hoping for is on its way, as well. You should consider very carefully before making your decision."

The girl gasped, and her friends surrounded her and started chattering excitedly.

"Wow," Amelia lifted a brow. "Reckon that'll come true?"

"Of course it will," Percy said, dismissively. "That's Yvette Viridian. Her mother heads the records room of the Wizengamot, and Yvette's been talking about working there since first year. It hardly takes mystical powers to see that —"

He cut himself off, as the professor approached their group; Calista thought her eyes looked huge and creepy, magnified behind her thick, round spectacles.

"Hello, Professor Trelawney," he said, suddenly very cordial. "It's nice to see you again."

The Professor smiled oddly. "Is it, Mr. Weasley?"

Percy shifted uncomfortably; the professor's gaze shifted, to Amelia and Calista.

"Oh," the Professor said, loudly; and then she placed her hands over her heart, shaking her head, and adopting a tragic expression. "Oh, heavens, you poor, dear child."

The overlarge, strange eyes were fixed on Calista, who did her best to hide her discomfort, and keep her expression placid.

"Your news, today, will not be good, I fear. Try not to lose yourself in the inevitable despair; it will be difficult."

A few students were murmuring, now; Calista braced herself for cruel laughter, or perhaps a crack from one of Avril's cronies, but neither ever came.

"She predicts despair four or five times a day," a well-meaning voice came from behind her; she turned, to see George Spratt, who had come over through the crowd; she saw Emily Yaxley over her shoulder, offering an encouraging smile, as well. "It hardly ever comes true."

"He's right." Emily said, "I'm supposed to have suffered at least six tragedies already this year, and unless you count our potion going wrong  _again_ , it hasn't happened."

She blinked, and glanced around; wasn't Emily afraid to approach her in the open like this? And then, when she surveyed the crowd, she realised — none of her usual tormentors were here. Avril and her minions either had surnames earlier in the alphabet and had already gone to the Ministry, or, like the Rowles, they were not seventh years.

"I don't know," Calista managed, "It's an important day. I could have done without  _that_."

"Oh, well, Divination is a very imprecise art," Percy muttered, once Professor Trelawney was well and truly out of earshot; she was at the front of the crowd now, telling a Ravenclaw boy not to talk to anyone Scorpios if he could help it. "Most of the time, I really think she only guesses. That's why I dropped the class, after I got my O.W.L."

"For once, I'm going to agree with Percy," Amelia said, linking her arm through Calista's, as the front doors opened and the crowd started to move out, "Don't worry about it. Let's just be glad we're getting out of the castle for the day, eh?"

"It's just," Calista frowned, "What if the 'despairing news' today isn't even mine? What if it's an omen about Gerald, and his interview today?"

"Nah," Amelia said, "Runes and Symbols will be all over that loveable swot."

"Gerry's got the perfect qualifications to work for the Ministry in that capacity," Percy said, earnestly, "I can't imagine he'll have much trouble landing a position with that department."

"That's what I just  _said_ ," Amelia huffed. "Now come on; let's go. I want to be at the front of the line. The sooner I get in and out, the sooner I can scare up some lunch."

"Besides," Percy said, reassuringly, as they went out into the chill afternoon, "I told you, my father is on the panel today, so you'll already know one person in the room."

Calista did manage a small, encouraged smile at that; she had met Mr. Weasley on the train platform a few times, and once in London when he'd dropped Percy off to meet with her, Amelia, and Penny, and he did seem to like her well enough.

"Yeah, I guess. What time do you think the interviews will finish, anyway?"

"Penny said everyone was finished by three o'clock when she went; I think they had some tour groups going, to visit some of the various offices, too. I'll certainly take advantage of that."

Calista blinked. "Hasn't your father been taking you all around the Ministry offices since you were small?"

"Well, yes, of course," Percy said, puffing his chest out, "That's why I ought to go — say hello to some familiar faces, and remind them that I'm about to graduate, and will be on the market, so to speak."

"Will you work in the same office as your Dad?" Amelia wondered; Percy immediately looked affronted.

"I should hope  _not_ ," he said, and then: " _I_ have a bit more ambition than that, after all."

Calista had been worried about passing the dementors, but she needn't have been; Professor Trelawney went out ahead of the crowd and dispersed the two at the front gates with a huge, shapeless burst of silver light.

"Goodness," Percy said, face pinching in concern, "They're sending us out with a Professor who can only produce a non-corporeal Patronus? I'm surprised it worked."

Calista would have been inclined to agree, were it not for her conversations with a certain professor, and a particular essay that he had set her.

"Remember what Professor Lupin said, the first day of class?" she said, "It's possible to disguise the form of a Patronus, so that it appears non-corporeal, but still retains its full strength."

"I don't think that's  _precisely_  what he said," Percy huffed.

Amelia snorted. "Yes, it is. You're just cross because she remembered it before you did."

"That's not true," Percy said, as they passed through the gate, "And I still think, with an escaped convict on the loose, that there should be more precautions —"

"Blah, blah, blah," Amelia cut in, "It figures; we get a day off classes, but not off  _lectures_."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had imagined that they would be brought in to speak to the Ministry panel alphabetically, or perhaps in the order they lined up when they arrived, but as it happened, they were brought in by House. Percy was in the first group to be called in; while the Gryffindors were sent in to meet with the panel, the students from other Houses were brought on guided tours, of different Ministry offices.

When Calista's group entered the empty, cavernous space where the Wizengamot hearings typically convened, she couldn't suppress a shiver. The chamber was huge, and echoing, and even devoid of its members, hideously intimidating.

She felt a strange, twisting tug at her heart, to imagine Gerald standing in this room, at ten years old, and relaying to a room full of strangers the harsh details of worst things that had ever happened to him. She didn't think she could have done it; she didn't think she could do it  _now_ , if she had to.

"Where is the Runes and Symbols Office?" Calista asked their tour guide, suddenly. Perhaps if she could see a glimpse of him, she would know if he was doing well in his interview; or perhaps if she could run into Mira, she might ask  _her_  how it was going.

"Second level," the tour guide said, "That's not a tour stop today, though. You can arrange a visit on another day, if you put a call in to the receptionist."

"Is that what you're trying to get into?" George, who was in her tour group, asked, "You'd be good at that."

"Oh — no, actually, it's… erm, just, I know someone that works there."

Calista was relieved when they left the Wizengamot, and the tour guide led them into the lift and up to another level.

Amelia, Penny, and Percy all knew about Gerald's interview, but she hadn't told any of her other friends; she wasn't certain if he wanted the word getting all around, and anyway, bringing Gerald up with her Slytherin friends usually went oddly, anyway. Eva Selwyn had told her that a lot of them figured she'd only dated Gerald to get back at Marcus, and even Sofia had been surprised that they were still dating, after Gerald had graduated. She was tired of having to explain that she really did have feelings for him; and no one believed her when she insisted that she thought he was better-looking than Marcus Flint.

"Is that where your boyfriend is interviewing?" Emily surprised her by asking.

"Erm… yes, he is," Calista said cautiously; she waited, for Emily to say something else, something like everyone in Slytherin seemed to say, whenever he came up in conversation.  _You're still dating him, then?_ Or, worse,  _That skinny Ravenclaw?_

Emily just nodded. And then: "Mum works with him at Flourish and Blott's, did you know?"

Calista blinked. Emily had spent most of her time at Hogwarts trying to pretend her mother  _didn't_  work in the bookstore, and now she was openly admitting it? But then — she reminded herself, again, looking around — the people Emily was worried about finding out weren't here, today; besides herself, Emily, and George, the only other person in their group was Xavier Selwyn, Eva's older cousin, and he was up front with the tour guide, peppering her with questions about every office they passed.

"Yeah," Calista finally said, "He mentioned that, recently."

"Mum likes him," Emily said, surprising her yet again, "She actually — erm, she used to tell me all about him, trying to get me to come in and meet him, before. I guess he worked there in the summers when he was at school, and Mum had this idea that he and I would — well, anyway. She told me he had an interview coming up, at the Ministry."

It was strange, to think of Emily and her mother discussing Gerald; but then, it wasn't  _so_ strange, if they were coworkers… she tried not to think too much about what  _else_  Emily had started to say.

"Your mum was trying to set you up?" George asked, and he chuckled. "I didn't think mums got involved in that sort of thing."

Calista half-expected Emily to ignore him, or tell him coldly to mind his own business; instead, she laughed, quite warmly.

" _Mine_  does," she said, "I don't think she trusts my judgement; she's afraid I'll come home with some kind of hardened criminal or something, otherwise."

"Oh, yeah?" George grinned. "Is that your type, then?"

For some reason, Emily blushed. "Erm, no," she said, "Not… not exactly."

George opened his mouth; there was a question in his eyes.

"All right," the tour guide said, "This is the end of the tour; it's time to return to the Atrium, where you'll be called in one by one for your interviews."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista was called in to the small office off of the Atrium right after Eva's cousin, Xavier.

"How was it?" she asked him, nervously. He had been in there for perhaps only five minutes, and his expression was hopeful.

"Easy," he said, "They just asked about the stuff that I already sent in, what I was hoping for, my O.W.L.s, all that. Fellow in there from the Department of Mysteries, he's a bit stern, but that's the worst of it."

She nodded, and took a steadying breath, straightening her back and her shoulders. The same woman that had been the Slytherin students' tour guide held the door open for her; she tried not to start when it snapped shut behind her.

"Hello, Calista," a friendly voice said; she managed a small smile for Percy's father. He looked a bit tired, but his smile was as warm as ever. He had a large splotch on the front of his robes, like perhaps he'd spilled his lunch earlier, and for some reason she found that reassuring, especially in contrast to the severe-looking, dark-robed man that sat beside him. _Saul Croaker,_  his nameplate said.

"Hi, Mr. Weasley. How are you?"

"Oh, busy, busy; I've got to get back upstairs after these interviews, got a whole cartful of extremely suspicious rubber ducks recovered from a Muggle shop — they look normal, see, but the second you turn your back on them they start honking and flapping. I'm told the Muggle ones aren't meant to do that —"

Calista stifled an amused smile; she felt relief flood her. Suddenly, Professor Trelawney's prediction of doom seemed laughable. Everything was going to be fine, it was just a formality, like she'd been told, time and time again.

Mr. Weasley's eyes shifted towards his colleagues, who were looking slightly impatient, and he stopped talking, abruptly.

" _Hem, hem_ ," came a prim little voice, from the severe-looking man's other side. "If you'll kindly take your seat, Miss Snape, we can get on with this process."

"Erm — of course," Calista said hastily; she took the single seat that was across from the table where the three of them lined up. It was a bit odd, like sitting across from three professors at once.

The woman who had spoken up smiled now, tightly. She had a pinched, glum sort of face that seemed at odds with the bright pink robes she wore, and the frilly pink bow set atop her steel-grey curls.

Calista glanced at the nameplate.  _Dolores Umbridge_. She vaguely thought that she'd heard the name before; she thought the woman might work directly with the Minister for Magic, but she wasn't certain.

"I believe introductions are in order," the woman said, "I Madam Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic himself. This man at my left is Mr. Saul Croaker; he works in the Department of Mysteries."

The woman frowned slightly, and added, dismissively: "And it appears you are already acquainted with Mr. Weasley. Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."

Calista nodded uncertainly. "I'm — erm, Calista Snape. Though I suppose you all know that, already."

"Indeed." Madam Umbridge took up a pair of half-moon reading glasses from the table, and lifted the edge of a packet of papers. She shuffled through them, briefly.

"I understand you're the daughter of the Potions Master, a Professor Snape."

Calista nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"You've achieved consistently high marks in Potions. That's no surprise, I suppose."

There was something funny in her tone; Calista suspected it was an implication that her father was the reason she had done well, as if perhaps he'd managed to fix her exam scores, or something.

"I have a Certification in Poisons and Antidotes, too," she said, a bit defensively, "And I have high marks in other subjects, as well. Charms, Ancient Runes…"

"Yes, yes," Umbridge cut her off, with a wave of her hand and a tight smile. "I can read, Miss Snape."

As if to demonstrate the point, Umbridge perused the papers in her hand, making small verbal notes as she went. "Services to the school… potions, again. Nine O.W.L.s…Slytherin Prefect."

"Nine O.W.L.s?" Mr Weasley said; Calista had the distinct impression that he was trying to be helpful. "That's impressive."

She knew he was trying to help, then; after all, he couldn't really be  _that_ impressed, since she knew Percy had earned twelve.

Umbridge cleared her throat, and ignored Mr. Weasley.

"I was in Slytherin myself, you know," she said, looking at Calista over the top of her reading glasses. Her tight little smile was back, and for some reason, it gave Calista an uneasy feeling, in her gut, even though her tone was quite friendly. "It's my family house. In fact, a niece and nephew of mine are in Slytherin now; you must know them: Hecate and Orpheus Rowle?"

Calista felt the uneasy feeling in her gut solidify. "Yes," she made herself say, as neutrally as she could, because Umbridge looked like she expected her to reply. "I know them."

The severe-looking man, Croaker, cleared his throat gruffly. "Thought that last lad was your nephew, or cousin, or something," he said, "That Selwyn fellow."

Umbridge's smile was quite cold and tight, as she turned it on her colleague. "I have many such connections," she said, smoothly, "It's often that way with the old families."

She shifted the papers in her hands. "Ah, yes," she said, looking down at one as if she had just remembered it existed. From where she was, Calista couldn't tell what it was. "This is interesting. I believe you know what I mean, when I speak of the  _old_  families, don't you, Miss Snape?"

"I suppose," Calista said, cautiously; she craned her neck, trying to see what was on the paper that Umbridge was looking at, but it was no use.

"Tell me, Miss, hem,  _Snape_ ," Umbridge said; Calista felt a chill trail along her spine; there was something she  _definitely_  did not trust in the woman's expression. "What exactly is it that you'd like to  _do_ , here at the Ministry?"

"Well," Calista said, forcing her voice to come out steady, despite her growing nerves. "I want — eventually — to do work with the Committee for Experimental Charms. I've done a lot of research… and Charms is one of my best subjects. Professor Flitwick advised me to start with an internship somewhere in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

The man seated at the centre, Croaker, took one of the sheets of parchment off the table. Umbridge frowned, as if he'd taken it from her personally. She snatched up the rest of the sheets, and began shuffling importantly through them.

"Six O's in your O.W.L.'s, eh? That's decent," Croaker murmured. "Could be we could overlook the Transfiguration score, for a couple of these applications you put in. Arthur, how strict are they on that, in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? Lot of folks from there end up working with the Charms Committee, I think."

"Depends on the subdivision," Mr. Weasley said, "Accidental Magical Reversal Squad won't take anyone without a N.E.W.T., I think. Might be they could make an exception for an internship with the Oblivators, I suppose, that's all Charms work. Have to check with Arnie Peasegood. Wouldn't matter in my office, but no one ever applies. Just as well, there's nowhere for anyone new to sit."

Mr. Weasley chuckled, and then craned his neck to look over Croaker's shoulder at what were presumably Calista's O.W.L. scores.

"They won't take her in Improper use of Magic, not with that Transfiguration score," Croaker grunted, off-hand.

After a bit of squinting and frowning, Mr. Weasley looked up at Calista.

"I don't see it on here, but — I don't suppose you've taken Muggle Studies?"

"No, I haven't."

"Ah, pity, can't take you in my office, either, then — best to check with Arnie, after all."

" _Hem, hem_ ," Umbridge interrupted, delicately. "This is quite unusual, isn't it, Mr. Croaker? I don't recall seeing anything like this in any of the other students' files today."

"What is it?" Mr. Weasley asked.

Umbridge ignored him, and held the paper out to Croaker; she was now tutting and shaking her head. "My, my… and look, it appears to bear  _your_ signature. Well. This certainly presents an obstacle, doesn't it?"

Croaker frowned, and studied the paper. Calista clenched her fists, to try and calm nerves that were tingling all over.

"How did that get in here, with all of her other paperwork?" Croaker asked, "It isn't supposed to be."

"Well, it  _is_ here, Mr. Croaker."

"What isit?" Mr. Weasley asked again, distinctly annoyed. He tried to read over Croaker's shoulder again, but Umbridge snatched the paper away from both of them.

"It's a letter," Croaker answered gruffly, "Advising that Miss Snape is not to be in possession of a Time Turner, by Ministry Order."

"Yes, yes," Umbridge said, tutting again. "Relatives in Azkaban — well, I believe  _one_  of them may have recently escaped?"

Calista started. "That's not — I have  _nothing_  to do with that —"

Mr. Weasley frowned. "I've done this panel for years, Madam Umbridge" he said, "And I've never seen anything like that before. Are you certain it's supposed to be part of her packet?"

"It  _is_  here, gentlemen," Umbridge reminded them. Croaker shifted, uncomfortably.

"We use these in our office," he admitted, "Blacklists her from joining the Department of Mysteries. But it's not supposed to be in the packet; it's not for any of the other Departments to see."

"Oh, that hardly seems fair," Umbridge said, "After all, if we're aware of a potential conflict, shouldn't  _everyone_  be forewarned?"

"See here, Dolores, that's not how it works — "

"Well, Mr. Croaker," Umbridge said, "Perhaps that's how it  _should_  work."

"I have nothing to do with  _her_ ," Calista said, hotly, "And nothing to do with  _him_ escaping, either."

Umbridge pursed her lips. "There's no need to be so  _angry_. After all, this is just a — formality. The ultimate decision will fall to the Matching Committee, not to anyone in this room."

She smiled, saccharin-sweet and tight-lipped. "The letter stays," she said, firmly, gathering all of the pages; matter-of-factly, she attached them all together, and then, with her wand, sent the entire packet sailing into a bin at the end of the table labelled 'Completed — Send to Intern Matching Committee for Review'.

"Dolores, I don't think —" Croaker started; Mr. Weasley had actually risen to his feet, frowning and red-faced.

"We've gone well over time, gentlemen," Umbridge said, "You are dismissed, Miss Snape.  _Chop, chop_."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista felt numb as she exited the office; dimly, she heard George Spratt being called in after her. He tried to talk to her briefly on the way past, but she couldn't even pretend to pay attention.

"Oh, hey!" she heard a familiar, excited voice. She ducked her head, pretending she hadn't heard; she wasn't ready to talk to any of her friends yet, not even Amelia. She needed a few minutes, first, to process what had just happened…

"Ger, hang on, I see her," she heard Amelia yell, echoing across the Atrium, "Oi, Calista, look who's here!"

Well; everyone in the Atrium had undoubtedly heard  _that_. She could no longer pretend she hadn't. Besides, had Amelia said…?

She looked up, and he  _was_  there, right beside the source of the noise: Gerald, dressed very nicely in neatly-pressed formal robes, and wearing a bright, hopeful smile.

She felt her heart stutter, a bit, as weighed down as it was. He looked happy; his interview must have gone well. She didn't want to ruin his good mood, not when she'd already complicated their last few meetings with her problems. She forced herself to adopt a neutral expression, swept everything that was bothering her behind a thick mental curtain. She'd deal with it later. She crossed the Atrium towards them.

"Gerald," she said, before either of them could ask her about the meeting she'd just come out of, "How was your interview?"

"I think it went really well," he said, "They've asked for some letters of reference — Mira says that's a very good sign. I'll get one from my boss, at the store, and I can use the ones I got last year, from some of my professors. They said I should hear something either next week or the following week."

"That's fantastic," she said; she knew she ought to smile, so she forced herself to do so, but even to herself, it felt alien.

Gerald's wide smile melted, slightly. "Calista? Is something wrong?"

"No," she said quickly; Amelia was looking at her quizzically, now, too. "I just — leftover nerves, I suppose. I'm fine."

"How did  _your_  interview go?" Gerald asked, earnestly, "They loved you, didn't they? Several departments will be fighting over you, I expect."

"Erm — maybe. I'll write you about it later. I don't really want to talk about it at the moment."

He was frowning slightly, now.

"I want to hear more about yours," she said, quickly. "What sorts of questions did they ask you?"

"All the usual things, I suppose. Which runic languages I was familiar with, why I was interested, things like that. Are you… certain you're all right?"

"I know that look, too," Amelia mused. "She's not, but she's not going to tell us. What was it, something that Croaker guy said? He seemed a bit creepy, didn't he?"

"Not as creepy as that Umbridge woman," Calista couldn't resist muttering. Gerald started.

" _Umbridge?_ Dolores Umbridge? She was on the panel?"

"Oh, yeah, her too," Amelia agreed, "That weird little-girl voice got to me. And she asked me twice which House my parents were in, and gave me this odd look when I kept having to tell her I'm Muggle-born, like I was telling her my parents were horses, or something."

Gerald's face was creased with worry now; his eyes had gone dark, and he shook his head. "I can't imagine why they'd have  _her_... " he looked up, across the Atrium towards the office where they were conducting interviews, almost nervously.

"Gerald?" Suddenly, it was Calista's turn to frown with concern. "Are  _you_  all right?"

"I — yeah. I… I really do have to be getting back to work; Ferada only said she could cover me until three-thirty…Calista, can you walk to the exit with me? There's something I want to tell you..."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "You can just admit you want to go off and snog. I'll look away."

"Thanks," Gerald said, absently; his eyes were fixed on Calista. She nodded, and followed him, while he cut a path away from the other students.

He ducked into an alcove near one of the grates, presumably the one that would take him back to Diagon Alley. He glanced at it, but no one appeared to be coming through, at the moment.

"Umbridge was on the panel today?" he asked her to confirm, quietly; the pinched, worried expression was still on his features.

She nodded. "Yeah. She obviously didn't like me. She's — she said she's related to the Rowles, and  _they_  both hate me, so…"

Gerald was leaning in close to her, now, and he spoke in a low, urgent tone. "She… Calista, when I had to testify in front of the Wizengamot… it wasn't easy, but for the most part, they all believed me, after they had questioned me. They all seemed to agree that my father should be sent to Azkaban. Except one person:  _her_. Dolores Umbridge. She said…"

He swallowed, and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice even further. "I had a letter, from Mum, saying some of the stuff he'd done… Umbridge wouldn't let me submit it as evidence. She said the court couldn't take the word of a —" his face twisted slightly, "The word of a Muggle, to condemn a wizard. She also said they should…" he swallowed again, " _question_  how much someone my age could accurately recall."

Calista felt a new flame of anger flicker to life, in her gut, feeding on the hardened lump there. "Gerald, that's awful."

"Yes, it was," Gerald agreed, "But — she has a lot of influence, or she did, then. They…" he clenched his jaw, briefly; Calista looked in his eyes, and was startled to see the tell-tale glimmer of tears forming there. His voice was coming out slightly ragged, now. "They were leaning towards a harsher sentence, I think. Someone brought up a similar case, said that person had gotten ten years… and then  _she_  started questioning me. All of these specifics… dates, the exact incantation of the curses he used, things that I couldn't remember perfectly. It all… " she could see his hands trembling, slightly. "After awhile, it all begins to blend…"

"I know it does," Calista reassured him, quietly. "I didn't even… I don't even know exactly how old I was, for a lot the…  _things_. Things she did. Never mind the  _dates…"_

"Well," Gerald finished grimly, "I did the best I could, but she had me going back and forth on things, questioning if something happened during the day or at night, if I was five or if I was seven…"

He shook his head. "Maybe I should have just given one answer, and stuck with it, but I was trying to be perfectly honest, and I wasn't  _certain_ … and after all that, and after she told them no one could read the letter from my mother, and they only sentenced him to two years."

"That's awful," Calista said again; she reached over, and put her hand on his shoulder, in what she hoped would be a comforting gesture. She didn't know what else to do. "Gerald, I'm so sorry."

"Well," he said; she could see him trying to compose himself. He reached for her free hand with his, and squeezed it, for reassurance. "It… it's already happened. I just… when you said she was on the panel… I just worry, whatever she's up to, I don't think it's anything good. Be careful."

Someone else came up to the grate, and stepped through it; Gerald looked at it anxiously, and turned their hands slightly, so he could see his watch. It was only a few minutes away from three-thirty.

"I wish I could stay with you," she said; behind her, back by the fountain, she could already hear Professor Trelawney rounding up the rest of the students.

"Me, too," Gerald said, a bit forlornly. Then he shook his head. "I do have to get back to work, though. And it looks like you have to get back to school. Will you write me, to let me know what happened with your interview?"

She nodded. "Are you sure you'll all right to go back to work, right now?"

"Not entirely," he admitted, "But it's not as if I really have a choice. I'll… I'll see you in a little less than three weeks, right? The next Hogsmeade weekend?"

She nodded, quickly. "And I'll write you tonight. I… my experience with Umbridge was also…" she shook her head; she could feel the dark emotions welling up inside her. She couldn't let them up, here. "I'll write you," she said again, instead.

Gerald nodded, too; then he glanced over her shoulder, before pressing a brief kiss to her forehead.

She looked up, a question in her eyes.

"Trelawney's watching," he muttered, "I don't know if you're supposed to be with me instead of with your group, and I don't want to get you in trouble."

"I don't care," she said, and she kissed his mouth. After a few seconds, Gerald broke away.

"I really do need to go," he said, reluctantly, "I was about to, when Amelia saw you coming out."

She let go of his shoulder, and he released her hand, and then turned to the grate. She could see her classmates gathering now, too, and Professor Trelawney was doing a head count.

"Calista." He had paused, and was looking at her over his shoulder. "It will be all right,  _mon colibri. Haut les coeurs — oui_?"

She managed a small smile; she thought she understood what he was trying to say; something about keeping her spirits, her heart, high. " _Oui_ ," she agreed, " _La… la même chose, pour toi_. _The same thing, for you._  Is that… is that right?"

Gerald's mirroring smile was laced with affection, if still a little sad. "It's close enough,  _mon coeur_. And now I  _really_  do have to go.  _À bientôt._ "

He stepped into the grate, and Calista rejoined her classmates; she was silent while they chattered about their own interviews, the matches they thought they might get. A few people commented that either Umbridge or Croaker had irked them slightly, but it sounded as though no one had had as disastrous of a session as she had.

She fell numbly into line, thinking about what Gerald had told her, and wondering if she had any recourse — if there was anything she could  _do_ to get that letter taken out of her file, or to have it overlooked.

With an uneasy feeling, her mind returned to her conversation with her Uncle Lucius, over the Christmas break,

 _I'm saying_ , he had told her,  _That you should apprise me of any obstacles that may spring up in your path._

This though; this wasn't a N.E.W.T. requirement she needed overlooked, or her name passed on to a certain department for consideration. This struck her as quite an obstacle. Who would want her to work for their department, with that letter hanging over her?

She felt panic rising in her chest, constricting her airway, throughout the entire return trip, even as they arrived back at the castle.

Who knew where that file, that letter would go? What if it did more than hurt her internship chances? What if someone on the Committee for Experimental Charms saw it, and decided that it would be too much of a security risk, to have her on it?

"Oh, my dear," someone said in a low voice near her ear; she started, and found herself looking into Professor Trelawney's oversized, overgreen eyes. "I did warn you, and it seems I did so in vain; you're already lost, in your despair; the signs say you will be for a very long time."

"How did you know what would happen?" Calista asked, quietly.

The Professor hung her head, and let her shoulders drop, like she had been set with a heavy burden.

"I am gifted and cursed, with the Sight; but you know about curses, I think, my dear. You carried one yourself, for quite some time, didn't you?"

Calista blinked.  _How could Professor Trelawney possibly know about that?_

"It is in your sign," the Professor said sagely, "The plight of the Aquarius. You were born, I think, in the dark phase of the moon, and that doesn't help."

She did feel cursed, and lost; and then, at the professor's final words, Calista took a step back, and shook her head.

"That's not right. I'm a Pisces. And the moon was nearly full; I had to do my entire chart for Astronomy in first year."

The Professor moved on, as though Calista hadn't spoken.

"I told you," Percy said quietly; she had no idea how much he had overheard. "It's a very imprecise art."


	14. Chapter 14

Calista knew her father would be waiting to hear how her interview at the Ministry had gone, but she dreaded telling him. She didn't really want to tell  _anyone_ , which was why she'd firmly shut down Amelia and Percy's incessant questioning, once they'd arrived back at the castle.

As she saw it, only one of her peers might understand; someone who had already suffered at Umbridge's hands, and someone whom she had already promised to write regarding her interview.

Her hands trembled as she scrawled her letter in the Owlery, leaning awkwardly against the very same ledge she'd leaned on to write the letter, just before the break, where she'd promised to try to stop pushing him away. She wrote quickly, before she could consider the matter too much and decide not to tell him, either.

_Dear Gerald,_

_I hope I won't regret admitting what happened in my interview today. Perhaps if I could explain the way it feels, to keep a secret, you might begin to understand why I so often cling to them. Right now, what happened with the Ministry panel only happened to the people who were in the room. It almost may never have happened at all, right? And when I begin to tell people, it is real, and it really has happened. I suppose the best way to explain it is the way I explained to you another secret that I used to keep: Before I tell anyone who my mother is, I am just Calista Snape, and afterwards, I am_ her _daughter, and the person I've told may never see me the same way again._

_At least you know, what that horrible Umbridge woman is like; I don't have to explain that part. And you know the other pieces of it too, really, so I suppose it's not even much of a secret. Maybe that's why I feel that I can tell you, when I really don't want to admit what happened to anyone else._

_You know who my mother is. You know that the Ministry barred me, a long time ago, from ever having a Time Turner, because of it. A letter that lays all of that out ended up in my Ministry application files, somehow. Supposedly, it was written by the man, Croaker, who was on the panel, and even he said that the letter was not supposed to be there, that it was meant to be seen only by the Department of Mysteries, to blacklist me from ever working with them; only now, Umbridge has decided that every department I applied to has the right to see the letter, so I suppose I'll be blacklisted from all of them, too._

_The worst part is that the more I think on it, the less that I feel as if I have the right to protest what happened: after all, maybe the letter wasn't supposed to be in my files, but it's not as if it isn't true. Perhaps my real mistake was in thinking I could ever leave her shadow._

_I'm sorry to write, once more, with nothing but bad news. I do have something more hopeful to tell you, as well — a plan, like I mentioned — but it's not something I can put in writing. It involves yet another secret, but I think some good may come of it; I promise I'll tell you when I see you next, in Hogsmeade, if you still want to come._

_Yours,_

_Calista_

She tied the letter to Lucerne's leg, with trembling fingers, and as she watched the silhouette of her owl sail away against the backdrop of the setting sun, she had a powerful urge to call her back. Even when she knew it was likely the best thing to do, and even when he already knew most of what she'd written, it still felt like she was giving away something she shouldn't.

She knew she would have to tell her father, too; but now, she was emotionally exhausted, and she didn't think she could handle rehashing the details twice in the same night, even if one of those times had been through a letter, and even if Severus could be counted on to take her side.

 _Or perhaps_ , a little voice in her mind whispered,  _You don't want him to admit there's nothing he can do._

It would almost certainly be true; she could think of nothing he  _would_  be able to do, except for contact Uncle Lucius.

_And that's what you're really afraid of, isn't it? That he'll be the only one who can help._

She tried to suppress her thoughts, as she traced her way from the Owlery down to the dungeons, but they still managed to bubble up.

The common room was too crowded; worse, she could see Marcus Flint and a few of the other Quidditch players at a study table, arguing over a diagram. She went to her dormitory room and quickly snatched up a few books, and a particular stack of parchment, and then she went to the one place she knew she could lose herself in something objective and impersonal: the library.

At first, her thoughts still stormed; she felt like a tiny boat, bobbing helplessly between two conflicting waves: the first was desperation, telling her she had to write to her aunt and uncle immediately for help before that letter made its way in front of the Matching Committee, and the second was revulsion, at the way that her uncle had callously and thoughtlessly invaded her mind again, as if it he were perfectly entitled to read her thoughts.

As the evening wore on though, the seas began to calm; the tumult of her mind settled, buoyed by the scratching of her quill against parchment, the gentle flicker of each turned page.

She pored over each of the runic magic essays she'd brought with her, and went through every notation that Professor Flitwick had made, every single edit he had suggested. When that was finished, she went back to all of her citations, and made sure each of them was formatted properly, and that she had removed any that she was no longer using in her reformatted piece.

Hours later, when it was surely past even the Prefect curfew, Calista yawned, huge and wide and frankly satisfying. She realised that a strange, still feeling had settled over her; it wasn't  _calm_  precisely, and it certainly wasn't acceptance. It was… something else, something she struggled to define.

She gathered her things, and started the walk towards the Slytherin common room. At the last minute, she changed her mind, and veered past it, heading for her father's quarters. He was already asleep; or at any rate, his bedroom door was closed, and there were no lights on in the flat — she quirked a tiny, tired smile as she realised that wasn't quite true. From the end of the hall, a tiny sliver of light escaped from a half-open door; her old bedroom. The little witchfire nightlight had been replaced again.

She set her essays and her books down on the kitchen table, and then she followed the light, a vessel treading a careful path to a safe, marked shore. She went over to the little dresser, and changed into her nightdress, and withdrew a particular pair of slightly worn gloves, and tucked them under her pillow, and then — in the soft silver glow of the witchfire light, she went to sleep.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

In the morning, Calista woke to the piercing, fragrant aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. For a moment, as she sat up in a familiar room, with a familiar tiny light glowing dimly at the other end of the chamber, she felt peaceful, at ease; and then, slowly, the events of the day before trickled into the forefront of her mind, and by the time she had hurriedly dressed and made her way cautiously to the kitchen, she was wound as tight as a coiled snake.

"Good morning," Severus said; it sounded more like a question than a greeting. He was sitting in his usual spot, with a mug of coffee and a half-eaten plate of eggs on the table in front of him. She went immediately and wordlessly to the cupboard, and took down a mug, filling it to the brim with the steaming, dark liquid from the pot.

"You had an owl this morning," Severus said, gesturing to a letter on top of the table. Her books and papers from the night before had been set to the side, to make room for them to eat.

She snatched it up, recognising the rune on the front immediately; she set her coffee down haphazardly, near the edge of the table, and opened the letter without even bothering to sit down.

"You're not arguing again, are you?" Severus asked; she ignored him, concentrating on the letter.

_Mon colibri courageux,_

_Of course I still want to come see you; aside from all of the usual reasons, I want to hear your secret, your advice, and your plan. I wish we had time earlier today, but perhaps it was more important that we discuss what we did._

_My concern is elevated, now that I know precisely what Umbridge did, during your panel; not because there is no recourse (there has to be, mon cœur, and I will get to that) but because it is not something she should have been able to do in the first place; it is keeping me awake, wondering where and how she got a copy of this letter, when the very man who wrote it was surprised by its presence among your other files. The Department of Mysteries is not an easy place to steal information from. With your permission, I'd like to ask Chadwick and Mira what they make of it, since they work for the Ministry, but of course I won't unless you say it's all right. I have not told them precisely who your mother is, but they do know that she was abysmal to you and that you don't have anything to do with her; I am confident they will not change their measure of you by knowing her name, but it is a secret I will continue to keep, if you want me to._

_As far as this new secret, though, this letter — Calista, I do not think it should be kept secret at all. You have been well and truly wronged by it, not once now but twice. I have been lying awake, as I said, and it strikes me now that what Umbridge is doing to you and what she did to me are not so different. I regret to this day that I was not equipped, at the time, to counter her properly. I was young, and I was uncertain, and if I'm being perfectly frank, I was used to being bullied, and I let her do the same thing to me in that courtroom that my father had been doing to me for years._

_I think I am beginning to understand why you guard your secrets so closely, and it strikes me that I never did tell you what I wanted to, in your first year: you can tell someone, Calista. You are being hurt; someone is abusing their power over you, and you do not have to let them. Tell someone, mon cœur; in fact, tell everyone who might be able to help. Tell your father, tell your aunt, tell your friends, tell every single professor that wrote you a recommendation._

_You reminded me, once, when I really needed to hear it, that I had done nothing wrong, but that it was the tactic of an abuser to make me feel as if things were my fault, and I think now it is my turn to remind you of that same fact: you have done nothing wrong._

_I am here for you, mon colibri, for anything you need; give me the word that I may, and I will ask Chadwick and Mira for help, too. I have no intention of letting Umbridge get away with this; not a second time, and certainly not against you._

_Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

After reading the letter through, Calista's eyes leapt between two sections, back and forth:

_Mon colibri courageux; tell someone. Mon colibri courageux; tell everyone who might be able to help._

_I do not think it should be kept secret at all._

"Calista?" her father's impatient questioning pierced her reverie; she looked up from the letter, and she could tell immediately that it wasn't the first time he had called her name.

"Calista, are you all right?" he asked, eyes latching onto hers as soon as they had come up from her letter; he was giving her the same familiar, probing look that he had done for years. Once, when she was small, he had been able to see when she was and when she wasn't, without a word from her. Now, things were more complicated; now, she was a good enough Occlumens to keep him out, if she wanted to. She could close her expression off, and meet his gaze with one that betrayed nothing at all, if she chose.

She took a deep breath; she glanced back at Gerald's letter; and then, she met her father's gaze directly and deliberately.

"No, I'm not all right," she said, "Someone that was on the Ministry panel yesterday is trying to sabotage me, or they're working with someone who is."

She explained it, all of it — exactly what had been said in the meeting, what Gerald had told her afterwards, and even the gist of what he had written, in his letter; she left out the more personal parts, of course, and the French — but she told him about Gerald's advice, to tell everyone who might be able to help.

It was obviously a difficult story for Severus to hear; he growled and hissed at precisely the parts she'd known he would; and then, when she got to the part of relaying Gerald's advice to her, he rose.

His jaw was set formidably, and his eyes were menacingly dark. "I do not have any connections at the Ministry to speak of," he admitted, as she knew he would, "But I know someone who does — and I think Mr. Boot has the right idea."

"Dad, I don't know —" she started, and he cut her off with a ferocious growl.

" _This will not happen_ ," he said, "You have worked too hard; I will not have it taken from you."

"But, Dad, I don't think I really want —"

"Your potions class begins in five minutes," he told her, tone clipped. "Stay behind after; there's someone we're going to go and speak with, during the lunch break."

"Dad," she said, matching his firm tone precisely, "I don't want to ask Uncle Lucius for help, with this. Not unless we have to."

Severus smiled then, though it was utterly humourless. "Oh, I wasn't thinking of him; though he should certainly be informed, too."

She blinked, bewildered. Who  _else_  did her father know with Ministry connections, unless for some reason he meant  _Dumbledore_  — but why would  _he_  help her?

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

She had ruined the entire experimental batch of the blood-replenishing potion in class; it was a testament to the state of her nerves that she had managed to do so, and it was rather a touching testament to something else entirely that her father had simply cleared the ruined potion away, wordlessly.

"Well," Emily had said, "At least we have the regular potion, for the hospital wing. Calista had felt her roommate's eyes then, questioning.

"Is something wrong? You're very quiet," Emily had ventured.

"No," Calista had said, automatically, "I'm fine."

Instantly, she felt additional eyes on her.

"Liar," someone murmured; she looked up and scowled at Amelia, but it wasn't just her: Penny and Percy were eyeing her, too.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. She busied herself with packing her materials, concentrating on suppressing the trembling of her fingers, and on avoiding her friends' gazes. She felt them drawing close, but then her father swept over, too, expectantly, and her friends suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be.

"Where are we going?" she asked him quietly, when he led her out of the classroom, and out of the dungeons. He didn't reply, but then, he was striding ahead; it was possible that he hadn't heard her.

Her theory that they were going to see the Headmaster was disproven when they passed the staircase that she knew would take them there, and took a side corridor she'd never been down before. They reached a door at the end that was flanked by a pair of stone gargoyles.

"Good afternoon, Professor," the left-hand gargoyle said. "Coming inside, then?"

"Is Filius within?"

"Think so," the right-hand gargoyle said, "Unless there's another exit we don't know about —"

"Or unless you fell asleep on the job again," the first gargoyle interjected.

"Enough," her father said, "Yes, I'll enter."

The left-hand gargoyle bowed, and then, with a click, the door swung open.

They entered a long, dark-panelled room with an assortment of mismatched wooden chairs; there were a handful of professors in the room, either chatting, sitting around the fire, or reading a book. She realised they were in the staffroom; at the far end, she recognised what was undoubtedly the infamous boggart cupboard that Draco had told her about; she cast it a dark look.

"Ah, hello Severus," a very familiar voice said; Professor Flitwick looked up from his book. "Have a seat, join me, if you like."

"I've actually come just for that purpose," her father said, drily. "Do you have a few minutes to chat, Filius, with myself and with Calista?"

Professor Flitwick looked past him and noticed Calista for the first time; he smiled, quite fondly. "Why, hello, Miss Snape. Excellent essay yesterday, on the the Shield Charm; should I be expecting a follow-up soon, on a runic version?"

"I don't know, sir," Calista said, "That's really more — well, it's not  _my_  specialty. I'm still working on the runic Summoning Charm. I think I've worked out what's going wrong, I need to name the object in the same runic language as the ones for the spell —"

She suddenly remembered that they weren't alone in the room, and that this wasn't why they were here. She fell silent.

"Fascinating, fascinating," Flitwick said, smile broadening. "I look forward to reading all about it — perhaps in a journal, eh?"

There were a couple of other professors — Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor, and Professor Sinistra from Astronomy — chatting near the fireplace; they had gone quiet, and were looking round, perhaps wondering what a student was doing in the staffroom, or perhaps just curious.

"That's actually closely related to the the topic I'm hoping we can discuss," her father cut in smoothly. He glanced at Calista, and then looked back at Professor Flitwick. "Though perhaps this isn't the place; it seems we are interrupting."

Professor Flitwick looked between them, and evidently whatever he saw was enough to sway him. He stood, inserting a worn bookmark into his book to keep his page.

"Very well, then, we can use my office, it's not far."

They went out again; Calista and Professor Flitwick trailing slightly behind, until Calista hurried forward a few steps to catch up with her father.

"Dad, why are we — I don't want to —" she glanced over her shoulder; she didn't want to say too much, when Professor Flitwick could hear.

"He already knows," Severus told her, quietly, "Most of the staff, in fact, do."

"About —  _her_?" she asked, as they climbed a long, spiral staircase, to the third floor.

"Yes," Severus said, "And about the Time Turner."

They stopped at Flitwick's office; he tapped his wand to the door, performing a neat little charm, and the door swung open. He went in first, and Severus swept in afterwards. Calista, after a steadying breath and a moment of hesitation, followed. She eased the door closed behind her.

"What's the trouble, Severus?" Professor Flitwick asked, astutely.

"There was an incident yesterday, during Calista's meeting with the Ministry panel, regarding internship matching," Severus said, "I know you wrote her a recommendation, and indeed she chose her applications based largely on your counsel, and so I thought you might be —  _interested_  to hear how it went."

"What sort of incident?" Flitwick asked; he peered up at Calista. "It's all right if you were nervous, my dear; they've seen it all before, I assure you."

"No," Calista said, "It wasn't — it wasn't that."

She glanced at her father, and he nodded. "Tell him, Calista."

It was difficult; she liked her Charms professor very much, after all, and even though Severus said he knew — well, what if he had forgotten? What if reminding him precisely whose daughter she was changed his opinion of her? What if his response was to say that Umbridge was right; that perhaps he shouldn't have directed her towards the Committee for Experimental Charms after all, considering?

She felt a steadying hand on her shoulder, and she remembered what Gerald had called her, in his last letter:  _mon colibri courageux._  It wasn't just that; there was something he had said.  _Someone is abusing their power over you, and you don't have to let them._

She swallowed, and then she started to talk.

"My father says you already know about — erm, my Time Turner application, in third year, and… why it was declined."

Professor Flitwick nodded. "A most unfortunate business," he said, shaking his head, "And yet, not the first time I've heard of such a policy, and — I fear, not the last."

It sounded like he disagreed; that gave her a small spark of courage to go on.

"Well," she said, "A copy of a letter outlining that decision ended up among my application files, somehow, and…"

She told the whole story again; what Umbridge had said, and how even Mr. Croaker's protests about the file's inclusion had been overruled.

"She wouldn't budge," she finished, "She attached the letter to the top of the file, and placed it in the box, to be sent to the Matching Committee. And I don't know what to do, now, if this ruins my chance for getting into any of the departments we talked about."

Professor Flitwick was frowning; his back had straightened, and when he drew himself up to his full height, it struck Calista that he could manage to appear quite formidable, despite his diminutive size. "This is an outrage," the tiny professor said; his voice squeaked slightly, as it rose, "More to the point, it is a targeted,  _bigoted_ attack, a for which I cannot possibly imagine a motive—"

He shook his head vigorously, as if clearing it. He huffed, and paced, and then he turned back to them.

"We will talk, Severus; I know a few people and I have a few ideas. Calista, my dear, I don't suppose you've finished those edits we spoke about, for your article?"

"Yes," she said, quickly, "I finished them last night. And the citations."

"Excellent; please bring it to me, as soon as you can. I think it's time to hasten its publication, if you are ready to let it go?"

"If you think it's good enough," Calista said; she felt the stirrings of hope for the first time since she'd left the Ministry, yesterday. "And if you think it will help."

"It certainly will not hurt," Professor Flitwick said; and then he fixed her, with a lengthy, hard sort of stare. "Do you know how long I've been a professor here, child?"

"Long enough to have taught my father," Calista ventured, "I know that."

"Indeed," he said, "Longer than that; long enough to have taught your mother, as well."

Calista felt her heart stutter; she cleared her expression, and tried not to meet his gaze.

"She was very inventive, herself," Professor Flitwick said, solemnly; Calista felt her father's hand on her shoulder, again. "And possessed of a natural knack for runes…"

The professor stepped closer, and she couldn't help but look at him, gaze drawn instinctively to the sudden motion.

"And that, my dear, is where the similarities between you and she end. I intend to make certain the Matching Committee understands that."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

On Wednesday morning, Calista was on her way to the Great Hall when someone suddenly and unceremoniously linked their arm through hers; she started slightly, before realising it was only Amelia.

"Amelia, what — I'm about to eat breakfast — "

And then, someone took her other arm; she started again, and turned her head to see Penny.

"Change of plans," Amelia said, brightly, "You're coming with us."

"Come on," Penny added, steering her down the corridor to her right, "We've got something to say to you."

"I don't know if I like this," Calista managed, suspiciously.

"Oh, but," Amelia said, far too brightly, "We've got  _snacks_."

They ducked into a small, empty room; it looked like some sort of storage area, for broken furniture. In one corner, there was a haphazard tangle of old brooms and mops, and in the opposite corner stood a pile of chairs in various states of disrepair, most missing at least one leg, and a rickety table that was being held up mainly by an unsteady stack of books and — Calista suspected — magic. As promised, it was laid out with an array of food that looked like it had been nicked from the kitchens.

"What is this place?" Calista asked, "And why are we here, exactly?"

She tugged her arms free. Amelia shrugged, and promptly went over to the table, selecting a pastry.

"I don't know that it's used for anything at the moment, besides snogging," Penny said slyly, "Oh — and helping your friends, of course."

With that, she went to the door, poked her head and one arm out, and motioned to someone beyond.

"We've got her, Perce; come on in."

She slipped back into the room, and Percy entered behind her, shutting the door quickly and quietly behind him.

"I still think we should have done this in a proper classroom," Percy fussed, "Or perhaps the library."

"Come on, now, where would be the fun in  _that_?" Amelia asked, spraying them all with crumbs. She swallowed. "Oops."

"Done  _what?_ " Calista snapped, "No one's told me why we're here."

Amelia huffed, and swallowed the last bite of pastry. "Well, how do  _you_  like it? You never tell  _us_  what's going on."

"What are you talking about?"

"You  _are_  awfully secretive," Penny agreed, "And it's silly, really, because we all can tell when something's wrong."

"I'm fine," Calista said automatically, and Amelia snorted.

"Told you."

"As it happens, we know you're not," Penny said, in a very calm sort of voice; the one Calista privately thought of as her Head Girl voice, "Amelia told us how upset you looked, after your meeting at the Ministry,  _and_  she told us that Gerald looked worried, too, once he found out Madam Umbridge was on the panel."

"You don't need to worry about that," Calista muttered. Amelia and Penny both rolled their eyes.

"'Course we do, you bloody prat, we're your  _friends_ ," Amelia snarked.

" _And_ , as it happens, we already know what happened," Penny said, sly again and slightly triumphant.

Calista blinked. "How?"

Percy cleared his throat. "My father wrote me last night," he said, "And he told me something about what happened, in your interview — a letter, of some kind, drawing attention to your mother's identity? Father says it was utterly out of the ordinary, and I must say, I agree. However —"

"He  _told_  you?" Calista snarled, interrupting, "I thought those meetings were meant to be confidential!"

"Yes," Penny agreed, "And they're also supposed to be fair. Just listen, will you, we're trying to help."

"As I was saying," Percy said, voice rising slightly; then he paused, until he had their undivided attention. "The  _reason_  Father wrote to me was actually to pass a message on to you. He asked me to tell you that he sent a letter of his own to the Matching Committee, vouching that you're a friend of our family's, and an excellent student of solidly upstanding character."

Percy frowned. "In my opinion, he may have embellished that a little — you've had a few too many detentions, I think, to be considered of  _solidly_ upstanding character. Perhaps  _moderately_ —"

"Percy, shut up," Amelia interrupted, even more loudly than he was speaking. "We get it, you're the only Perfect Prefect."

Percy's face turned slightly red. "I'm not  _just_ a Prefect; I'm Head Boy," he reminded her, straightening and clearing his throat. "And  _at any rate_ , Father also wanted Calista to know that he's filed a complaint against Umbridge, asking to have her barred from serving on the interview panel in the future. A taste of her own medicine, I believe he called it."

Calista's jaw dropped. "He hardly knows me," she managed.

"Yes, well," Percy said stiffly, pushing his glasses up his nose. " _We_ know you;  _I_ know you. And I've told him enough about you that he knows you're not whatever that letter said you were."

It could have been a lovely, touching moment; and then Percy added: "I'm an  _excellent_  judge of character, you know. Not that I get enough credit for it, mind you."

"You're something, all right," Amelia muttered, and then: "Anyway, we wanted to tell you that we know what's going on, so you can stop avoiding us. Also, if no one else is going to eat the rest of these pastries —"

They all attacked the pile of food, then. Even Calista managed to nibble on a blueberry tart. After a minute, Penny touched Calista's shoulder.

"Calista?" she asked, "What… what exactly did the letter say, anyway? About your — about  _her_?"

Calista frowned, and withdrew slightly; she could feel the eyes of all three of her friends on her, for the second day in a row. And then, she remembered Gerald's letter again, his advice.

_Mon colibri courageux — I do not think it should be a secret at all. Tell your father… tell your friends._

She swallowed a bite of tart, and then she started the story, again.

"I wanted to take extra classes in third year…"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

On Thursday, she received an owl in a familiar, elegant hand.

_Dear Calista,_

_I hope you are well, darling. Your Uncle Lucius has just reminded me that your Ministry interview was this past Monday. We're very eager to hear how it went. I'm certain you made a favourable impression, but don't forget that impressions are not everything; I hope you thought to mention your family connections. You'll find, I think, that it will open many doors, in the right circles._

_I would also like to apologise for any offense I may have caused you at Christmas, after your uncle and I met your young man properly. I confess, I think our initial impression of him may have seemed less than favourable; but as I said, impressions are not everything, and family connections are important. You may recall that your young man spoke of family employed at the Ministry, and of course your uncle asked around. It seems a Chadwick Boot was recently promoted to a prominent position in the Office of Misinformation, and so it appears that the family is dedicated making their way back up in Wizarding Britain. Your Uncle Lucius and I are certain that his family and ours will be able to develop mutually beneficial relationships._

_I don't suppose this Chadwick is by any chance the cousin you and your Gerald were meeting for dinner, the day after Christmas? We would love to arrange a proper meeting between our families, particularly if things with this young man are as serious as you indicated._

_Do write back as soon as you can, darling. Your Uncle and I are especially eager to hear from you regarding your Ministry visit._

_Your Loving Aunt,_

_Narcissa_

Calista scowled, as she reached the end of the letter. She knew at once that its sole purpose had been to facilitate a meeting with Gerald's cousin, now that her uncle had evidently decided he was important enough to bother with, and she briefly considered refusing to write back out of spite.

If she had been a few years younger, undoubtedly she would have set her aunt's letter aside; but as irritated as she still was with what Narcissa had said about Gerald on other occasions, she could not quite forget the conversation she'd had with her aunt  _before_  Gerald had come to their home to pick her up, and a dozen conversations before that, where her aunt had somehow known exactly what Calista needed; where her aunt had managed to make her feel, for moments at a time, as if she actually  _was_  part of a family.

There was something else, to, that occurred to her, and once again it stemmed from something that Gerald had written, months ago.

She had asked for his opinion on the tension between her father and Professor Lupin, given that her father seemed to detest the man, and Calista had distinctly recalled his kindness to her, when she was small.

 _Very few people are entirely good or evil, wouldn't you agree?_ Gerald had written, and then:  _It's certainly possible that he has done something unsavory in his past, but still managed to be kind to a frightened child._

Now that she had spoken with Professor Lupin — with Remus — a few times, and found him capable of not only kindness, but valuable wisdom, the sentiment felt more real; suddenly, she could apply the same logic to her conflicted feelings about her aunt. She thought she might  _almost_  be able to apply them to her uncle, too, but it was difficult, still.

Another train of thought tried to slink its way into her mind, and it was coming down the tracks the opposite way: it reminded her of the tattoo she'd glimpsed on her father's forearm, his evident familiarity with casting the Imperius Curse; but it was something she could not afford to consider, not when her own matching scars flashed across her mind every time she tried to produce a Patronus; not when nothing but a thread of hope and a particular, silly superstition were granting her respite from a lifetime of sleepless nights.

She folded her aunt's letter, and placed it inside her Arithmancy book, and then she went to class.

It was difficult to concentrate on lectures; it had been since Monday, since she'd received cause to question her entire future, and despite the hope she was clinging to, she was very glad it wasn't  _all_  she had.

Penny let her copy the Arithmancy notes that she'd been too distracted to write; Percy offered to let her off their Astronomy Tower patrol on Thursday evening, so she could catch up on her schoolwork from the week; Amelia passed her extremely amusing and extremely rude drawings in Ancient Runes class, and dragged her to the Ravenclaw table at lunchtime, goading her into eating a proper meal.

She did take Percy up on his offer, to skip one of her evening patrols — after all, she suspected that his motives were not  _entirely_  altruistic, since Penny shared their route, as well. She did try to look through the Arithmancy notes from Penny, but she found that her thoughts kept invading, still, and she set the notes aside, and decided to use her free time to respond to two letters.

_Dear Aunt Narcissa,_

_My interview at the Ministry did not go well at all. In fact, I'm surprised that you and Uncle Lucius haven't already heard about it from my father; he did think you should know what happened, though I want to make it clear that I am not asking or expecting either of you to fix this for me._

_A letter from my third year ended up in my application files, somehow; though I never saw it myself, I knew from my father that it existed: the letter that officially bars me from having a Time Turner (I think from even touching one), because of who my mother is._

_It wasn't supposed to be in my file; the man who wrote it was on the panel, and he expressed as much, but the woman, Umbridge, insisted it should stay with my applications, and so it was sent to the Matching Committee along with my recommendation letters and my O.W.L. scores and everything else. No one seems to know where or how she got the letter, but the why is quite clear, at least to me: she said she was related to someone at school who hates me very much for reasons I don't completely understand. I've decided I don't want to say who it is, because as I said, I am not asking your and Uncle Lucius to interfere for me. I will say that it's not Olivia Avril, in case that's what you suspect._

_I told Uncle Lucius at Christmas that I was hoping I'd get an internship that would help me qualify, someday, to serve on the Committee for Experimental Charms. I don't think I really told you, and I know I've never properly explained to either of you how much I want that, for my future. I've written probably over a hundred essays, on the subjects of runes and charms. I've modified spells based on my research. I've been more or les fixated on the subject since I was eleven, and now I fear that this letter will damage my chances of being offered an appropriate internship. I'm explaining all of this because I realise I never properly responded to Uncle Lucius' urging that I consider something else, something he thought would be a higher reach than the internships I did apply for, and also to explain why I do not want him to use his influence to help me obtain whatever sort of position he meant that I should consider instead; because it won't be, and it won't lead to, the future I want._

_I did meet Gerald's cousin Chadwick and his fiancée on Boxing Day; they were very nice people, and as Gerald told you, they do both work for the Ministry, though we never discussed Chadwick's work. I'm glad that you and Uncle Lucius approve of Gerald. I'll talk to him about your suggestion that our families meet, sometime._

_I'll write you again when I get the recommendations from the Matching Committee, or when I hear about the internships I applied to at St. Mungo's._

_Sincerely,_

_Calista_

It was yet another in a string of situations where Calista had decided on honesty, and on letting go of secrets that her instincts told her to keep; and it was yet another example, in a year where she could think of several, where she'd overruled her initial desire to spite or ignore someone or something that was bothering her, and had actually addressed it more or less directly.

She supposed she was meant to feel good about both of those things, but she still felt the same uncomfortable, hollow space in her gut that she always did, when she let go of something she'd been keeping bottled up. It was preferable, she supposed, to the pit of snakes that had inhabited her gut, before she'd been able to decide to let anything go, but it still didn't seem like the way that she was  _supposed_ to feel.

She took a second sheet of parchment, and wrote her second letter of the evening.

_Dear Gerald,_

_It's been a long, strange, and exhausting week, as I'm sure you can imagine. I hope you don't think that the reason it's taken me a few days to write back is because I'm pushing you away, again, though I wouldn't blame you for thinking that, since it's nearly always been the reason, before._

_I've been considering whether or not to accept your offer to talk to Chadwick and Mira about what happened. My initial reaction was of course a resounding refusal; no matter how many times someone tells me they still see me for myself and not for my mother, once they learn the truth, I am still surprised by it every time, and my instinct is to keep it secret. My instinct is to keep everything secret, and I don't think you're so far from the truth as to one of the reasons why. This week, though, I've done something very different, and very uncomfortable, and frankly, very terrifying: I've followed your advice. I've told my father, and Professor Flitwick, and my friends, and I've just now written a letter to my aunt that I'll send as soon as Lucerne gets back from delivering this to you._

_So far, this has been another surprising truth, and one that I hardly dare believe: every single person I've told has been trying to help me. No one has said that Umbridge was right; no one has said that the letter ought to stay in my files; no one has pointed out that the Ministry has a point, in holding my mother's actions against me, again, and so I will take one more uncomfortable risk, and say that it is all right with me if you ask Chadwick and Mira for their opinion._

_Perhaps you expected things to turn out exactly the way they are, but I didn't. But then, it seems I am not always as adept as I would like to think at knowing what will come of admitting things. A great many examples come to mind, but it strikes me I've come too far in this letter without flirting at all, and I was supposed to be practicing, if you recall, so I'll use this example: If I had expected that you would return my feelings for you, I would have admitted to them as soon as I admitted them to myself, and by now we would have been together for over a year._

_You told me, that night in the library, that you had begun to suspect I felt more than friendship for you, so I suppose I wasn't as good with that particular secret as I'd hoped, at the time. I'm curious what gave me away: Did I say something a little too eagerly, or come up with too many excuses to spend time with you, or did you simply catch me eyeing you during one of our patrols? I confess, I know I did the latter of those things more than was probably wise, but I suppose I thought it was safe, when your attention was focused on a book instead of on me._

_I know my confession isn't as sweet or as romantic as yours was, but I don't honestly expect to compete with you in either of those regards, so I'll end mine with one more thing that's difficult for me to say, but that I think I should._

_It has not been an easy year for either of us, but I am still hopeful, for both of us, that it will improve; and the moments when I feel that hope the most powerfully are usually when I am with you, or re-reading one of your letters for the umpteenth time, or just thinking of you. I miss you very much, and the strangest thing is that I feel a sense of having missed you before I even knew you. And now, re-reading that sentence, I fear you may be succeeding in your project, after all, of turning me into a corny romantic like you: but you should know, I'm very stubborn, and I'm still resisting._

_Yours,_

_Calista_

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Time crawled by; Calista knew she couldn't expect to hear back about the internships until April, or perhaps even later, though she'd heard that the response from St. Mungo's usually came earlier. It wasn't  _only_  news that she was waiting for, though. The next Hogsmeade weekend was scheduled for the Saturday before Valentine's Day, and not only would she be able to see Gerald again, but she would have a chance to tell him about her plan, to find out once and for all what his father's demands were about.

She went back and forth, for weeks, between anticipation and nerves; after all, she couldn't tell him the plan until she admitted to being a legilimens. A very persistent part of her mind was gripped, still, with the fear that it would change his opinion of her for the worse, but even the risk of that seemed worth facing, if she had a chance to truly help him.

Gerald had written back almost immediately to her letter, sending his response the next day with Uruz so that Lucerne could return that night, and Calista could send her other letter, and even though he could have no notion of what she was planning on revealing to him, he had somehow managed to be so sweet and thoughtful in his letter that it made it more difficult to truly believe that he would be capable of judging her without hearing her out, when she finally admitted to being what she was.

_Mon colibri,_

_Even though I did expect that you would find help and support by divulging what happened, it warms my heart greatly that you have done it, and that my expectations were correct. Perhaps my expectations are as flawed as yours, because even though I hoped very sincerely that you would heed my advice, I didn't really expect you would; I don't know if I've ever been so pleased to be wrong._

_I'm meeting Chadwick and Mira later on in the week, and I will speak to them, then, as this feels to me like the sort of conversation that I should have with them in person. I'll let you know what they say, but my hunch is that they will find the leak of the that letter as disturbing as I do._

_Your words about this being a difficult year for both of us ring painfully true. You have been, as I've said before, the brightest spot in a dark time, for me; une étoile brillante dans la nuit, and if you must live in darkness too, then I want to be the same thing for you, until we find a way to drive it away once and for all._

_As for your question, ne t'inquiète pas, mon colibri, you're still a fearsome protector of secrets. It wasn't so much that you gave anything away; it was that I was very much looking for any sign that my affection might potentially be returned, someday. You wrote that you watched me when you thought I was focused on a book, but mon cœur, if you were in the room then I can assure you my attention was divided._

_I confess, I did start to flirt with you, in small ways, after the dueling club particularly; I watched you carefully to see how you would react, and whenever I caught a fleeting smile, or the faintest hint of a blush — which, to my dismay, you were always very good at suppressing, until that day in the library — I grew more and more confident that we were (forgive me for this, but I can't resist) on the same page._

_I planned the flowers, you know, well in advance of Valentine's Day. Owl's clover isn't native to Britain, and the florists only get it in by special order, so I owled my order in shortly after Christmas, and then I spent the next month and a half trying to work up the courage to ask you to go to Madam Puddifoot's with me, that Saturday. I was going to give them to you there, and tell you how I felt. Then, you started acting odd and I was convinced you had figured it out and that I'd had it all wrong, and I almost cancelled my order. Luckily, when we spoke and I realised that you'd been acting strange because you thought_ I  _was interested in someone else, there was still time for me to get the florist's and pick it up, after all._

_You know, I'm actually glad that we had that bit of awkwardness, then, because I think everything worked out better the way it ended up happening than what I had planned. I didn't realise until we spoke on the day that I had hoped to be taking you there how much you hated the tea shop; I didn't know you'd ever been, actually. Most importantly of all, I've always felt it was perfect that our first kiss happened in the library, and the rest of the time I was at Hogwarts, I couldn't enter the Restricted Section without grinning like a fool._

_The funny thing is, though, I don't know if the kiss was even my favourite part, from that day; I think it might have been figuring out that I could indeed make you blush quite fiercely, if I said or did something romantic enough and, yes, corny enough. I'll convert you yet, if I haven't already, and you must know that informing me of your resistance is only going to encourage me to try harder; but you're very clever, and I suspect that may well have been your intention in saying so. If that's the case, there remains only one thing for me to say:_

_J'écris volontiers plus que les quatre rouleaux de parchemin requises, ma bien-aimée, et je ne me contenterai de rien de moins que les meilleures notes._

_Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

She had a growing collection of letters, now, that she liked to re-read, and sometimes even carry with her, in the pockets of her robes.

 _I'm more than willing to complete more than the required work for the assignment,_ _my beloved,_ his last phrase had roughly translated to,  _and I will settle for nothing less than top marks._

Once she'd translated the French, she'd had the urge to question what he could possibly do, to become more romantic than he already was, but she was afraid that saying so would be taken as another challenge, one that he might not be able to resist attacking with anything other than the dreaded poetry.

Aunt Narcissa had written her back as well, sympathising with her disastrous experience at the Ministry, but curiously saying very little about it, other than to say that, in her opinion, the letter revealed nothing other than Ministry's own bias. She had mentioned Gerald's family again, too; Calista had rolled her eyes, at the transparency more than anything else.

A few days after she received Narcissa's letter, she received one in a hand she had only seen a handful of times; her heart lurched unpleasantly when she saw it, because historically, only things which she did not want to hear had been conveyed in that particular hand.

She had gone so far as to retreat to her father's office before she would open the letter, to save herself the journey if its contents proved to be as upsetting as the  _last_  letter he had sent, but when at last she did open the letter, it seemed curiously benign.

_Dear Calista,_

_Narcissa shared the details of your last letter with me. I am disturbed, but not particularly surprised by the Ministry's prejudice._

_I have taken the liberty of speaking with Madam Umbridge, and we have reached a compromise that I believe may please you; if you are not awarded one of the internships you desire, she will see to it that you are offered a well-paid position directly within the office of the Minister for Magic himself, even if that pay must come from a significant portion of her own salary._

_Of course, you do not need to accept that position. I will ensure others are made available, if it becomes necessary; we will speak of it the next time we meet._

_I suspect you have an argument ready, so allow me to head it off. You may have been advised that an internship from your list would be necessary, to gaining appointment with the committee you're interested in, but I can assure you that your family connections, and the favour that Madame Umbridge is now well aware that she owes you, will afford you far more opportunity than any experience._

_You know I believe that should set your sights higher, but if this Charms committee is what you desire, then you shall have it, one way or another._

_Give my best to your father,_

_Lucius Abraxas Malfoy_

Once again, her uncle had well overstepped; but her ire at that was quickly assuaged when she reached the last sentence in his letter. She could nearly see the grudging sneer that must have twisted his face, when he'd written it.

Still, despite his intentions — which, for the first time, she was beginning to suspect might not be as selfish and manipulative as she'd instinctively thought — he was missing the point. It wasn't  _just_  that she wanted to serve on the Committee, it was that she had spent the course of her entire education  _actually_ qualifying herself for a role like the one she wanted to earn on the Committee, and she would not feel the same about it if it were handed to her in the guise of some sort of  _birthright_. She did not want to rely on a family connection, a family name, that she wasn't even  _proud_  of; the Malfoy name, like the Black name, had always felt to her like an uncomfortable cloak that she had no choice but to wear. She was a  _Snape_ , first and foremost, and though that didn't carry any weight beyond the domain of the Potions classroom, she was fine with it.

There was something else, something she couldn't possibly explain to her aunt and uncle. After hearing what Umbridge had done to Gerald, there was not a chance, in this world or the next, that she would accept a favour from that woman, let alone one that would have her working with her side-by-side. She would have precisely nothing to do with Umbridge for the rest of her life, or she'd undoubtedly end up in a great deal of trouble for whatever happened, when they met again.

In fact, it frightened her to think what might have happened, if she'd known about what Umbridge had done when she'd gone into the panel. It struck her that perhaps her father's words of caution  _had_  been as necessary as he'd insisted.

 _Perhaps you don't understand what it is like to encounters someone who has seriously hurt a person you care deeply about_ , he had said, and she  _hadn't_ understood, at the time, but she was beginning to.  _Restraint in those situations is not as easy as you seem to think it will be._

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

A week before the Hogsmeade weekend, a letter came from Gerald that was a grim departure from the sweet, increasingly French-laced missives that he had been sending. In fact, there was scarcely any French, or any romance, at all; even his closing had been anxious, rather than the over-the-top romantic phrase she'd come expect and, though she was loathe to admit it, to look forward to.

_Mon colibri,_

_I've finally had a chance to speak with Chadwick and Mira about your situation at length. Firstly, I want to reassure you that knowing the identity of your mother has in no way changed how they feel about you: they still like you very much, and now they, like I, am worried about you, for reasons I'm about to explain. I should warn you, this is not going to be an easy letter to read, as it is not easy to write. I fear that whomever is targeting you, they are more influential, or more dangerous, than even Umbridge._

_Chadwick is adamant that information from the Department of Mysteries can only be obtained with an internal source, and that the penalties for an information leak from there are too dire for that to be feasible. If someone in the Department did add that letter to your file, the least of what they would face is career termination and a criminal trial; it does not make sense that someone would risk all of that just to sabotage a teenager's career prospects._

_This means that the letter has to have been obtained from another source; but as far as you've told me, the only people besides the Department of Mysteries who have ever seen that letter are your father, and the Hogwarts administration. We know, of course, that your father did not leak the letter, which leaves only one remaining source: the school itself, or more precisely, your school files, where it seems logical that a copy of this letter would have been placed._

_A leak of this nature would still pose significant risk to any individual, and their career, who supplied it; after all, school files are confidential, too, particularly given the link to the Department of Mysteries. It does not make sense that anyone connected with the school would be responsible, even if they had a motive, which I cannot imagine._

_There is only one other explanation I can imagine, and it's so dreadful I hesitate to tell you about it; but I must. There is only one person I can imagine who might have a motive — or even an instruction — to bring harm against you, and to whom the consequences would be meaningless: someone with no career to risk, and who has already been handed the worst criminal sentence imaginable. Someone who has already infiltrated the castle illegally, and whom I've already told you I suspect must have powerful contacts on his side, to evade capture. Calista, I think we need to give serious consideration to the possibility that Sirius Black may have stolen the letter from your file, and provided it to his contacts at the Ministry._

_I hope very much that I am wrong, but once the possibility occurred to me, and especially once Chadwick agreed it was far more likely than the Department itself leaking the letter, I had to tell you immediately._

_Please be very careful, mon cœur._

_Gerald C. Boot_

He had been right about one thing, at the very least: it  _had_  been a difficult letter for her to read. She folded it up, with shaking hands, after reading; around her, the din of the Great Hall ought to have been deafening — it was the day of a Quidditch match, and it seemed the whole school could talk of nothing else — but she barely noticed.

It  _couldn't_ be true, could it? She couldn't deny, though, that there was a certain logic to it: Sirius Black  _had_ infiltrated the castle, at least once. True, he had attacked the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, but that did not mean it was the only part of the castle he had been in. It was also true that Harry Potter was widely believed to be his primary target; but as even her  _father_ had said, that did not mean he was Black's  _only_  target.

It was a very specific sort of blow, to damage her prospects at pursuing the thing that would give her purpose, that would make her feel productive, in her life, by using the very thing she was so often afraid that she would be held back  _for_. It struck her that it was really an  _extremely_ personal attack; someone would have to know her very well to know that it would strike her so hard.

 _Or_ , she couldn't quite stop herself from thinking  _Someone would have to_ know  _someone who knows you very well._

Bellatrix would know how deeply this would hurt Calista; she would know, too, that her greatest fears were  _becoming_  her mother, and  _becoming ruined_ by her mother: the two things, in fact, that Bellatrix had wanted for her all along.

She swallowed. She realised she did not know, and now she desperately wanted to, how close her mother's cell and Sirius Black's had been, in Azkaban.

She didn't trust herself to rise and stand steadily for quite some time; when she finally did, she decided to go to her father, and tell him about Gerald's suspicions. Only, when she got to his office, even  _he_ appeared to have gone out to watch the Quidditch match.

Strangely, his absence seemed suddenly comforting in a strange way; after all, the revelation that Sirius Black might have stolen something from her school files and used it to sabotage her future was world-shattering; but how completely could the world really be shattering, if her father could still be bothered to attend something as trivial as a Quidditch match, where their House team wasn't even  _playing_?

She wandered the castle for over an hour, seeking out any of her friends that might have stayed behind, but none of them had; but then, the match today was Ravenclaw and Gryffindor so she supposed it made sense that Percy, Penny, and Amelia had all gone to watch.

Come to think of it, it made sense that all of the Slytherins had gone, too; she knew from her cousin that they were currently in the lead for the Quidditch Cup, and would end up playing the final match of the year against whichever team won that day.

As the day wore on, Gerald's letter weighed on her less and less; after all, as terrifying as the possibility he had outlined  _was_ , she  _did_ know someone else who had a motive to hurt her, just as she'd explained to her aunt. Besides, Umbridge had even _mentioned_ the Rowles, in her interview, as if she'd wanted to be certain that Calista understood why she was being targeted.

By dinnertime, when the rest of the school streamed in, she had convinced herself that it couldn't be true, that Gerald was wrong. Besides, the break-in had been quite some time ago, and there had been no reports of Sirius Black having been spotted anywhere near the school since.

Calista's father still was not in his office, so she decided to go to the Great Hall for dinner, after all.

She blinked, as soon as she entered; it was strangely quiet, and she saw why almost immediately. The entirety of the Gryffindor table was empty. She hurried over to the Ravenclaw table, where her friends were looking decidedly glum.

"Where are all of the Gryffindors?" she asked Penny, "Where's Percy?"

"Celebrating, I expect," Penny said glumly. "They all rushed up to Gryffindor Tower, laughing and having a merry time, after they won the match. Percy, too, I might add; and now I owe him ten Galleons."

"Oh." She glanced at the empty House table again; and then something  _else_  caught her eye, something on the wall beyond.

"What the — how the hell did Slytherin lose  _fifty_ points since this morning?"

Amelia snorted. "You can blame your cousin and Quidditch Boy for  _that_. Apparently, they thought it would be amusing to dress up as dementors and rush out onto the Quidditch pitch to mess with the Gryffindor Seeker —"

Calista could feel her eyes go round, and then narrow into slits.

"My cousin and Marcus Flint did _what?_ "

"They dressed up as dementors," Penny confirmed, "Did you know that Harry Potter can produce a Patronus? I saw it — fully corporeal and everything. Amazing, he's only in third year.  _I'm_ still having trouble."

She stood up, and glared in the direction of the Slytherin table; which of them should she berate  _first_? — except, neither of them were there, and neither were her cousin's friends, Vincent and Greg.

"Where are they?" she snarled.

"Who, Quidditch Boy and Draco?"

Calista jerked her head, in a nod.

"Detention, I expect," Penny said, "Professor McGonagall gave them one immediately, when she took the house points. I saw them talking to Professor Dumbledore, too; evidently they're in a  _lot_  of trouble."

"Oh, yes, they are," Calista agreed, darkly. She wasn't even sure which she was angrier about; their callousness, the fact that Draco  _knew_ at this point how the dementors affected her and had still participated in the prank, or the fact that there was no bloody way they were going to win the House Cup  _now_ , despite the twenty points she'd convinced her father to award Daisy at the beginning of the school year.

She found that she suddenly had no appetite; she excused herself and made her way to the Slytherin common room, to wait for her cousin and his friends to show their faces; she didn't even know what she'd do if she saw Marcus first, she was already still livid with him for what he'd said to her, before Christmas.

None of them came, though; at least not before Hecate and Orpheus did, and Calista felt such an intense flash of rage upon sighting  _them_ that she thought it would be wise to leave, before her fingers reached reactively for her wand; or before she burst into tears, because either seemed strange, equally likely.

She abandoned her waiting, and went to her father's quarters, instead. He noticed her foul temper at once, and she explained about what she'd heard had happened at the Quidditch match; he confirmed that it was true, and the flame of her ire was stoked anew.

"Draco  _knows_ ," she told him, "Draco knows how the dementors affect me — he knows it's not just Harry Potter who fainted on the train —"

"That's true," her father reminded her softly, though not quite without an edge, "But your cousin  _also_ knew you were not present at the match."

"How did he know that? I could've gone."

Severus raised a brow. "And I could have rooted for Gryffindor to win, which would have been equally likely. Besides, he asked me if I had seen you, and I assured him you were still at the castle, completely and utterly engrossed in something you were reading, although I left out what I suspected it was — another letter from Mr. Boot, I presume?"

"Yes," Calista said, hurrying past the topic; Gerald's warning felt far away now, and impossible besides. "Still — Draco should have known better than to do that. And  _Marcus_ … I find it harder and harder to believe that I ever had any sort of feelings for him besides loathing."

"For what it's worth," Severus said, "I don't believe any of them intended the prank to harm anyone; I think they wanted to startle Potter —"

"He can produce a Patronus, did you know?" Calista interrupted, "Penny told me. A  _third year_ can produce a Patronus, and I can't."

"Calista…"

She sighed. "Whatever you're going to say, I already know. It's not my fault it's gone; I'll get it back someday — maybe."

"You will."

"What is it you like to say, when I ask for something impossible?" she asked,  _"We'll se_ e? _"_

Severus smirked. "Yes. And if you recall, you nearly always end up getting your way in the end."

"It's not like that," she said, almost offhand; but damn it, now she could feel the ghost of a smile playing across her mouth. Maybe he was right; maybe it  _was_  like that. Maybe it was a matter of simply being stubborn enough. If that was so, then perhaps it wasn't so hopeless after all.

"I'm going to read for a bit," she said, "And then, I think, I'm going to go to bed. I'm exhausted from trying to think of all the things I'm going to shout at Draco, and at Marcus, when I see them."

She went into the kitchen, and spread her notes and the new Sparkman book across the table's surface. She had noted a few passages and sections to re-read, and she did so now, making further notes and scrawling down titles of other books she wanted to cross-reference; after all, if she was hoping to finish Professor Lupin's Patronus "assignment" by the end of term, she was running out of time.

By the time she reluctantly put her notes away and went to bed, it was quite late and her father had already retired. She fell asleep quite easily, and though her sleep was somewhat restless, it was plagued, not my nightmares, but by visions of hastily scrawled notes and page numbers.

And then, hours after she had fallen asleep, but still hours before dawn, she was awoken by her father's frantic presence, rapping at the door of the tiny bedroom she still had, in his quarters.

"Calista," he said urgently, pushing the door open slightly, "You're here, right?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, half-sitting up; she rubbed her eyes. "What time is it? What's wrong?"

"It's three-thirty in the morning," he responded grimly, "And Sirius Black has broken into the castle again."

She felt her heart nearly stop.

"With…" her father's voice was heavy, and raw; he sounded as if the words were being wrenched painfully from his throat, "With a knife…"

Her heart did stop, then; or at least, she stopped feeling it. The image of her scars, bright and red and searing assaulted her consciousness, and because she was freshly awoken from sleep, it took her a few seconds to get it under control, to force it back down.

By the time she did, there was a small, strange sound in the room, and her father's arms were around her shoulders. She realised, after a moment, that the strange sounds were coming from  _her_. She was crying.

"I'm supposed to be searching the castle," he told her, quietly, "But I think tonight, I have a more urgent duty."

She couldn't say anything; she simply nodded, and buried her face in his shoulder, silently.


	15. Chapter 15

As they huddled, in the semi-dark of the witchlight glow in her childhood bedroom, Calista recovered enough to tell her father, haltingly, about the letter from Gerald, about the impossibility of the letter having been leaked from the Department of Mysteries.

Finally, she got to the part where she had to admit that Gerald suspected it might have been Sirius Black; in the daylight, with the normalcy of Quidditch and House Points all around, it had seemed ludicrous. Now, with the escaped prisoner loose in the castle, brandishing the weapon of her darkest nightmares? It felt frighteningly possible, and that was why Calista knew she had to tell her father, even if it meant that his paranoia would kick into overdrive; even if it meant that he might stop her from leaving the castle; even though next weekend was her chance to see Gerald again, and admitting his theory to her father might cost them that.

Severus partially let her go, examining her face carefully in the half-light, one hand still gripping her shoulder.

"What do you think, Calista?" he asked her, quietly. "Is that what you think happened?"

She blinked. "I don't know. Aren't you supposed to be telling me what  _you_ think?"

"I suppose I don't know what I think, yet."

That threw her; he  _always_  knew precisely what he thought, about everything. "It doesn't…" she started; she shivered. "I can't talk about this," she said, shaking her head, "Not now, not when he might still be out there…"

"Perhaps that's precisely why now is the time," her father said softly; but his wand was still gripped rightly in his free hand, and his eyes shifted to the door. "He won't hurt you, tonight."

Calista didn't trust herself to say anything, so she just nodded, uncertainly. She knew he'd catch the motion, even if he wasn't looking directly at her. She tried to suppress the silver flash of a knife, stalking her thoughts, but it was not easy.

"There are a number of enchantments guarding the entrance to my quarters…"

"I know."

"No one but you or I, or the Headmaster, can get in, without being let in."

"I know."

"There is nowhere in this entire castle that is safer for you to be."

"I know."

He glanced back at her, now. His face was shadowed, but she thought she could imagine the expression on his face, the look in his eyes.

"And none of those," he added, very softly, "Is the primary reason you're safe, tonight."

Calista drew in a breath. Then, cautiously: "Everyone says Sirius Black's target is Harry Potter."

Severus inclined his head slightly, the barest jerk of a nod.

"You're supposed to be helping the Headmaster protect him —"

He turned his head sharply, now; she felt his fingers tighten painfully on her shoulder.

"I saw it," she reminded him, squirming slightly. He loosened his grip, barely. "In one of the memories you showed me, during our legilimency lessons."

He tensed, again. "I've only been trying to show you one memory," he said. "And it has nothing to do with Potter."

His lip curled reflexively, as he said the boy's name. Whatever reasons he had for looking out for Potter, affection certainly was not one of them. She frowned.

There was something here to decipher; suddenly, she knew there was. There was a puzzle, a series of clues… her mind seized on it, the way it had seized on the opportunity to finish the citations for her article, when the despair of her Ministry interview had weighed on her as heavily as fear was trying to do, now.

The witchlight night light flickered, and even the brief darkness sent a horrible image searing across her mind, the violent, vivid red of a familiar pattern on pale, waxy skin — she didn't even know  _whose_ , it could have been hers, her mother's, her father's —

 _No._ She shivered, and then she took a steadying breath. Logic; clues. There was a puzzle here, and her father was as good as inviting her to solve it.

"Last time," she said, and she hated how high and frail her voice sounded; she scowled, and forced her words out, almost harshly. "Last time Sirius Black was in the castle, you aided the search."

He said nothing; she thought she saw his jaw tighten, but that might have been the night light flickering, again.

"Not only that," she went on, feeling slightly more confident, and slightly less afraid, as the threads of thought in her mind lifted away from the terrible memories they insisted on trying to tease out, and started seeking other memories, instead; other clues. "But you let me stay in the Great Hall, with the other Prefects, keeping guard."

"I did."

"Which means — I mean, you were worried about me, you're  _always_  worried about me —"

Severus snarled, softly.

"But you didn't really think I was a target," she went on, quietly. "You considered the possibility, of course; I'm sure you had a plan, if he  _was_ after me, but you didn't really think it was very likely…"

 _Shit._ The clues were arranging themselves, now, very clearly in the forefront of her mind. She felt her heart pick up speed.

"And this time, Sirius Black was in Harry Potter's  _bedroom_ ," she said, because that detail had managed to penetrate the haze of her panic, when he'd explained. "And you're probably supposed to be protecting him — you're  _definitely_ supposed to be searching the castle — and instead, you're here, with me."

He made a small noise in his throat, and nodded, sharply; the fingers of his right hand were still wrapped tightly around his wand, the fingers of the left still digging into her shoulders.

"Which means," she finished, softly, "That it's already occurred to you, hasn't it? What Gerald wrote?"

For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. And then, at last, he said: "Two possibilities occurred to me. One is very similar to the one Mr. Boot suggested; though, it does involve another party. An  _accomplice_ , if you will; one I've  _tried to warn you about_."

There was something urgent, almost pleading in his voice; his fingers tightened on her shoulder again, as if he could  _press_ the knowledge of whatever he was trying to tell her directly through her nightdress and her skin.

" _Ow_ ," Calista snarled, jerking her shoulder away from his grip. "Why don't you just  _tell_  me, then—"

"Quiet," he hissed, leaping suddenly to his feet; in an instant, he was creeping down the hall, wand drawn, alert.

She stood, too, and followed him; for safe measure, she drew her own wand, too, grabbing it from the tiny side table next to her bed.

There was a rattling sound, and then a door opening and closing, beyond the end of the narrow little corridor that bisected his quarters; the outer office door. Someone was in his office, now — Severus tensed, and Calista lifted her wand as well, trying to find an angle where she could cast over his shoulder, or around him, if she had to. Her Freezing Charm, or a Shield Charm, perhaps; no, there were certain curses a Shield Charm couldn't deflect, she'd better go with something stronger —

"Severus?" A familiar, and unwelcome, voice carried through the closed door. Calista scowled and tensed, but Severus' shoulders relaxed. He lowered his wand, and yanked the door open.

"Argus," he said, "Did you find anything?"

The crusty old caretaker shook his head; in the crook of one elbow, he cradled his wretched cat. She saw Calista, lurking behind Severus, and let out an unpleasant hiss; then an answering hiss and a growl came from somewhere below and behind, and Calista glanced back to see that Yellow had evidently followed  _her_ , just the way she'd followed her father.

Filch glanced past Severus' form in the doorway, taking in Calista and her cat with a look of deep distaste. Calista mirrored it, only she was a Snape, so she was certain hers was superior.

"No; I scoured the dungeons myself. Rest of the castle's been searched. Looks like he got away again."

"I see. I assume the dementors have searched the grounds thoroughly?"

Filch nodded, gruffly. "Mm," he grunted, "Nothing."

"Thank you, Argus."

Filch nodded again, and then sneered. "You ought to keep a closer eye on that little beast of yours, you know. Wandering the castle at all hours…"

Yellow hissed, again. "He does not  _wander_ ," Calista snarled, "Yellow stays with me, at night —'

Filch's sneer deepened. "Wasn't talking to you," he said, darkly, "And wasn't talking about the cat, neither. Talking about  _you_ , girlie."

Calista glared; the cat quailed, yowling piteously, but Filch's scowl was steadfast.

"Enough, Argus," Severus said, tiredly, "Thank you again, for letting me know. Good night."

"Offer still stands," the caretaker said, a bit too eagerly, "Still got the irons, sir — just a bit rusty, but perfectly good — "

" _Good night_ , Argus."

As soon as Filch left, and Severus closed the door behind him, he wheeled on Calista.

She took a half-step backwards, uncertain.

"Is this true?" he asked softly, "Are you roaming the castle alone at night?"

Calista blinked. "I'm a  _Prefect_ , " she reminded him, impatiently, "I don't 'roam', I patrol."

"Not alone?"

"Not usually. I have Sofia on Wednesday nights, and Penny and Percy on Thursdays. I mean, sometimes one of us goes to check a sound or something, but —"

"Not anymore," Severus said, "Stay together, always. Stay with the others and with the professors — we'll be pulling patrols now, too, I expect."

Calista frowned. She didn't like it, but…

A flash of silver, an unwelcome flash of red lines on white skin swept across her mind, unbidden. She nodded.

"Fine."

"What about after your patrols?" he pressed, "You come here sometimes — you go to that hidden room on the seventh floor —"

Calista kept her jaw from dropping only with significant effort. "You  _know_ about that?"

Severus sneered. "Of course I do. I know everywhere you go. Or, I should say, everywhere you  _went_ , because you will not be going anywhere alone after dark, anymore."

It made sense; Calista knew it made sense. After all,  _both_ of Sirius Black's break ins had happened in the dead of night. And yet…

"Why?" she challenged, "It's not like there's a ghoul, or a vampire, or a —"

" _What_?" he said, too loud for the distance between them; his eyes flashed, as if she'd said something wrong… she must have reminded him of the terror of last year, the creature stalking the corridors, attacking students… "It's not like there's a  _what_?"

She shivered, and she swallowed. She didn't blame his overreaction. The horror of that was still too close for  _her_ , too.

"It's not like there's a basilisk," she finished, lamely. Her father continued to stare at her, and she knew she'd have been wiser to keep her mouth shut; not that doing so had ever been one of her talents, once she'd begun to speak again.

"No," Severus said; his voice was quite low, now. "Not a  _basilisk_ …"

She sighed, all of the fight suddenly leaving her. "I know," she said, "Not a basilisk; just a deranged mass murderer… I won't travel the corridors alone at night, all right?"

"Very well," he said; and finally, he retreated, turning his dark eyes away from her face. It was funny, though; she'd given him exactly the response she thought he wanted, and still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd disappointed him.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista felt the acute tingle of nerves, all along her skin, as she walked with her father towards the Entrance Hall. it wasn't the  _same_  sort of nerves she'd been feeling all week, since the break-in, since the dreams had started haunting her again, despite the gloves underneath her pillow.

It was a different kind of apprehension, altogether; jittery instead of gnawing, bubbling instead of heavy and cloying. Either way, it was still extremely unpleasant, and she scowled at herself, trying to shake it, to no avail.

It was stupid, really; it was just  _Gerald_ she was going to see. It was just another Hogsmeade weekend…

Except, it  _wasn't_ just another Hogsmeade weekend. It was two days before Valentine's Day. It was one year since they'd decided to be something other than friends (well — three days to the year, anyway). It was… well, it was the day she was finally going to tell him that she was a legilimens.

"Please don't hang around," she said, glancing up at her father; if she was wrong about how he'd react, if Gerald looked at her with horror or fear or revulsion when she told him, the only thing worse than her heartbreak and humiliation would be having a  _witness_  to it. "After we get there, I mean — after I meet up with Gerald."

"I have no intention of doing so," he said, tightly, "Remember, if you're coming back before four o'clock, send word, so i can meet you at the gate."

"I know."

She hoped very fervently that she wouldn't be heading back early; that would mean that something had gone horribly wrong, either with her confession or with… the other thing.

This time, they were not as lucky as she had been on other occasions; this time, the dementors were flanking the gates closely, peering into the faces of each of the students as they passed through, in clusters of two and three at a time.

Calista felt the familiar chill, much further away than she knew she ought to have, by now — she tensed, fingers slipping into her pocket, one wrapping around an envelope and the other around her wand.

"I can already —" she started, but her father already had his wand out.

"Expec—" he started, and then: "Ah. It seems I needn't bother…"

"Huh?" She followed his gaze; the dementors were already being driven away from the gate, away from Hogsmeade, towards the lake. A winged silver shape pursued them, sending them well clear of the path.

Calista felt her heart lift, immediately and automatically as she recognised the bright, silvery owl that was Gerald's Patronus. She shifted her gaze slightly, and saw a very familiar figure, in the distance, just beyond the gates.

"Right," Calista said quickly, glancing towards her father, "You can go now."

He ignored her, until they'd passed through the gates, and until they'd drawn level with Gerald, who — mercifully, this time —  _wasn't_ carrying a bouquet of flowers, as if he'd anticipated that she might not want to receive them in front of the throng of students passing through the gate. Also, if they contained any hidden messages, she  _definitely_ didn't want to receive them in front of her father. At least the one at Christmas had been… well…

"Hello, sir," Gerald said, very politely, to Severus.

"Mr. Boot."

"I'll walk Calista right back to the gate, at the end of the day," he said, perhaps  _too_ earnestly, "Unless of course I don't see you; then I'll wait with her, far enough back from  _them_."

"You will see me," Severus said, tone clipped. Calista wondered if he was aggrieved by Gerald's eager tone; but she didn't have time to wonder long, because he turned on his heel and left, cloak billowing behind him.

"I'm really glad you made it," Calista said, "I know you wrote that you might not be able to get another Saturday off work…"

"Oh, it wasn't a problem at all," he said, and his tone was practically buoyant, "Come on; I have something for you, and something to tell you… did you eat breakfast? We can go to the Three Broomsticks first, if you haven't. Otherwise, I was thinking… our old spot. The trees, by the train platform?"

"Yes," she said, feeling relieved; at least if what she had to tell him went badly — or if the  _other thing_ did — there wouldn't be any witnesses to her humiliation. "That sounds perfect — and, yes, I  _did_ eat, and you're not the first person to nag me about it today."

The day was clear and fine; there was a gentle breeze, but overall, it was a good deal warmer than she'd expected. She removed her cloak halfway through their walk, draping it over her arm, clutching her fingers carefully over the pocket to make sure the envelope she had in there didn't fall out.

"Wow," Gerald murmured, glancing sidelong at her. He reached for her hand, and she twined her fingers through his, returning the glance. " _Tu es incroyablement jolie, mon colibri. Je t'aime —_ "

 _You're incredibly pretty_ , he'd started to say,  _I love you —_

She cut him an alarmed look, and he frowned deeply.

 

A fraction of a second later, his smooth French devolved into an uncharacteristically clumsily mumbled, " —  _bien en jaune_."

_— in yellow._

She released a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding.

He was wearing Muggle clothes again; he had the kind of shirt she liked, this time without the accompanying jumper. It was blue, too, which was her favourite colour on him.

"I, erm, could say the same thing," she managed, feeling  _those_  nerves mingling with the less pleasant variety that still made her skin tingle uncomfortably, " _En bleu_.  _En vêtements..._ " She wrinkled her nose. "How do you say 'Muggle' in French?"

His mouth twitched, as if he were amused. "I was — that's not really how you'd…" then he shook his head. "Erm, you know what?  _Moldu_.  _En vêtements moldus."_

She nodded. "Yeah. That."

"You're not going to say the whole thing?" he asked; even though he still wore a small smile, she didn't think he sounded altogether as though he were only teasing.

She swallowed. " _Je… je t'aime…"_ His smile flashed wider; she was certain of it. " _En vêtements moldus."_ She considered a moment, and added, hastily, " _Et bleu._ "

He squeezed her hand, and shifted closer, so their shoulders nearly touched as they walked. "Do you?"

She nodded, a bit shyly, and studied him, carefully; he seemed to be in an extraordinarily good mood, despite the heaviness that had weighed down several of their letters recently, the worry and the warnings, and…

Of course, it hadn't been  _only_ those things. There had been runes, and sweet phrases in French, and other things… things he'd written that had come dangerously close to saying what she'd forbidden him to, until she could tell him more of the truth.

She felt herself growing quiet, as they approached the train platform, and the patch of woods beyond. Should she tell him right away, and get it over with, or wait until the end of the day? If it didn't go well, she was hard-pressed to imagine which would be worse.

Gerald guided her on a path through the edge of the tree line that avoided the worst of the mud that the melting snow had left behind; they went a little further in than they had the last time, and for good reason, Calista could see: there was a small patch of cleared grass where he led her, almost entirely devoid of mud. There were a few leftover, half-rotted leaves; he cleared these away quickly with his foot, letting go of her hand to do so.

Before she could decide whether to tell him now or later on, he reached for her hands; then he let go of one, and took her cloak off her arm, folding it far more carefully than she had ever done.

"Wait," she said, remembering. She slipped her hand into the pocket, leaving her wand but withdrawing the envelope. "I need this…"

He set her cloak down, but then he was reaching for her hands again, and now one of them was full. He glanced at the envelope, saw the  _Noct_  rune on the front, and smiled. "Is that for me?"

"No, it's for my  _other_ boyfriend… he has the same Patronus as you. Strangest thing."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. I… have something for you, too."

He let go of her other hand, and reached into his pocket. When he withdrew it, he had a small leather pouch in his hand.

"Floo powder?" she raised her eyebrows.

Gerald laughed. "Not quite." He fumbled with the pouch, a little; she thought his fingers were trembling. Then, he was drawing a glittering golden chain out of the pouch, and Calista felt her heart steart to speed up again.

"Gerald, what's that?" The little envelope in her hand now, which had seemed like such a large and meaningful gesture only seconds ago seemed suddenly silly and juvenile clutched between her fingers. She hadn't realised…

" _Un colibri, pour mon colibri,"_ he said, slipping the pouch back into his pocket, and coiling the necklace in his palm, carefully, to show her. It was a small gold hummingbird, wings spread and delicate bill lifted in a gesture that  _did_ somehow make it look… well, fierce.

 _Shit_. She did notwant to be one of _those girls,_ like Olivia Avril, who got jewelry from her boyfriend (at least, she assumed girls like Olivia did, she didn't really know) and gasped or cooed over it; but what else was she  _supposed_ to do? It really was very pretty; and it really was very  _Gerald_.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a bit anxiously, probably because she hadn't said anything, since he'd shown it to her.

She made herself nod, and then: "But… Gerald, I didn't realise… my thing is stupid, now. And —"

 _And that looks horribly expensive_. She remembered in time that she probably wasn't supposed to say that.

He chuckled, nervously. "I'm sure it's not stupid; and anyway, I wasn't really expecting anything. I'm fairly certain the tradition is for… for me to get  _you_ something."

His cheeks were turning pink, and he started fumbling with the clasp; when he finally got it open, he looked back up at her. "May I?" he asked, very politely.

She nodded, and stepped closer to him, turning her back and lifting her hair off to the side. She just barely felt the weight of the small pendant, against her breastbone, but she was finely attuned to his hands at the back of her neck, his breath light and warm in the same spot.

His fingers fumbled, again, for a few seconds, and then he must have gotten it, because the fingers came away, but —

His hands slid lightly, carefully, around her waist, from behind, giving her a chance to stop him if she was uncertain. She didn't; and then, she felt his lips press against the back of her neck, felt a much closer warmth as he exhaled.

"Look at the back," he murmured, by her ear, "Turn it over."

She dropped her hair, and fingered the little hummingbird; she had to twist it around, and rear her neck back slightly to get a good enough angle; Gerald didn't protest when that set her skin against his mouth, again; instead, he kissed her there, too, at the exposed side of her neck. He took a breath, and he held it for a few seconds, before slowly letting it go. She was suddenly dizzy, and whatever was tingling through her blood, just beneath her skin — it wasn't nerves, anymore.

"Runes," she breathed, getting a look. "The Futhark Uruz… and the Latin Lucerna. Like our owls."

"Yes," Gerald said, quietly, "That's one of the reasons I picked those two. There's another, though; something those runes have in common… can you guess what it is?"

She swallowed, and considered. It was difficult to concentrate on runes, with him so close, with his mouth and his body and  _those damn Muggle clothes_  so close that she could feel all of them. The collar of his shirt tickled the skin at the base of her neck.

"They're not the same language," she murmured. "But… Strength. Candle. They're both runes for protection."

"Yes." She could hear the grin in Gerald's voice, as soft as it still was, and she knew she'd guessed exactly what he'd wanted her to. "Strength, and light,  _mon colibri_. I wanted to find a way to give them to you…"

She turned back towards him, then, and when he started to lifts his hands away from her waist, as if he thought she was shifting  _away_ … she wrapped her arms around his neck, and she kissed him, as fiercely and as deeply as she ever had. His arms tightened around her, too, and then one hand came up near her hair; for a second, she thought he would do what Marcus used to, twisting his fingers into the base of her hair to keep her from breaking off their kiss easily, and she felt a flutter of disappointment — but he didn't. Instead, his fingers began to trace the outside edge of her ear, and then, slowly, trail down the side of her neck and along her shoulder — it was light, and sweet, and just like the last time he'd done it, she couldn't imagine how it could  _possibly_ feel as nice as it did.

For a moment, their kiss was fervent and intense, both of their hearts racing, her blood practically setting her skin on fire from within; and that particular feeling, the one she'd begun to recognise but didn't yet want to name, was surfacing again…

And then, Gerald shifted slightly, or she did, and the arm at her waist was suddenly a little looser, though he showed no inclination to remove it. He eased back from their kiss, and she was jolted by the look in his eyes. It  _was_  one she had seen before, in another context, only this time she could remember when. She knew that it meant… well, it meant she wasn't the only one who felt that humming, swirling and not at all unpleasant  _potential_.

"Calista," Gerald murmured, very softly, " _Mon colibri, mon cœur_ … will you let me say —?"

She shook her head, quickly, and slightly withdrew. "No, you can't," she said quietly, "Not yet. Not until…"

She swallowed, and drew her hands back from around his neck; the envelope in her hand was slightly crumpled now, and also slightly damp, from being clenched between her fingers all this time. She practically thrust it at him.

He released her, somewhat reluctantly, and took the envelope. She didn't know if his hands were still trembling, or if they'd started again.

He withdrew the small square of paper; she heard him draw a breath in. She could picture the writing, clear and neat, for a change; after all, she'd stared at the parchment for fifteen minutes before and after writing it, and it was only five letters.

"Calista…"

"I used your suggestion," she said quietly, "It was difficult to say, so I used Latin…"

 _Te amo_. That was all she'd written, on the little piece of parchment; and it had seemed like so much, before today, before the glittering gold necklace, and the things she couldn't help but feel, when they were together…

"And I… I'm not allowed to say it —"

"No," she interrupted again, almost desperately; how could she explain, that if he  _said_ it, and then he found out, and he  _took it back_ , she'd break apart, shatter into a million pieces and a million hurts?

"What if I just did?" he asked, intently and softly, "What if I — just do?"

"I guess I couldn't stop you," she said, just as quietly, "But — you did say…  _we_ did say, a long time ago… that if something didn't feel comfortable…"

He sighed. "I suppose I'll keep waiting, then."

She breathed a sigh, too, but hers was full of relief.

"By the way," he added, slipping the paper back into the envelope, and tucking the whole thing carefully into his pocket, "It's not stupid. It's… probably a hundred times better than what I gave you. And I suspect it cost you a lot more, too…"

He wasn't talking about money; she knew that. Still, she fingered the little gold necklace, wondering if he  _had_  spent too much. Especially considering that he had missed a day of work, to come see her, and that he  _had_ to work, to help his mother…

"There's still something I have to tell you," he said, after a moment; she looked up, and alarm must have been evident in her expression, because he shook his head, and reached for her again.

"I won't say that, yet," he said, quietly, "Even though I want to, and even though it's true. Not until you're comfortable with me saying it. I did promise."

"Then what  _do_ you have to tell me?" she ventured. He smiled, and for an instant she dared to hope that he was going to tell her he'd figured out what his father wanted, that he didn't have to write him anymore — and of course it wasn't that, but what it  _was_ was almost as good.

"I took the job," he said, matter-of-factly. When she didn't react right away, his smile widened, and he clarified, "You've been spending the morning with the Ministry's newest Runes Translation Specialist."

She grinned, and wrapped her arms around his neck anew, kissing him heartily on the mouth.

"Perhaps I should have opened with that," he murmured, and then he was grinning, too.

"Gerald, I'm so excited for you; do you love it, so far? Are they going to promote you to the  _Senior_  Translation Specialist? Have you uncovered any important —"

He laughed, interrupting her by placing a finger gently over her mouth. "I've just finished my first week," he told her, "I really can't answer any of that, yet." And then: "I'm glad I decided to wait, and tell you in person, though; this was quite as much fun as I imagined it might be."

Her smile widened; she tugged his finger away from her lips so she could kiss him again.

"Ah, actually, more fun that I imagined," he corrected himself, when they paused again. And then they each had unspoken questions, and both of their smiles faltered.

Gerald opened his mouth, and she knew what he was going to ask, and she didn't have an answer, yet; wouldn't have one, until the Spring, when the results came back from the Matching Committee, so she interrupted, asking her question first.

"What are you doing about the letters — about your father?"

"The same thing as before, for now," he told her, "Only now it's easier to write on Saturdays — I don't have to work them anymore — and I just have to get up earlier, during the week, to make it to the post office before work."

She calculated, remembering how long he'd said it could take, to get to Manchester and back to London.

"So you're getting up at — what, three-thirty, every morning?"

He nodded. "It's still better than…" he shrugged. "It's what I have to do."

Now was her chance; and there was something so earnest and sweet and — this was the part that got to her most —  _worn_ in his face, that she found the words just tumbling out of her.

"That's what  _I_ have to tell you about," she said, "My plan. I talked to my Dad, and I can — Gerald, I know how we can find out what he's up to."

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, brown eyes widening hopefully. "You  _do_?"

"Yes," she said, "But there's something… something I have to tell you first. I probably should have told you before, but… well, we've talked about it before, people don't always understand, and — there's a bit of a…"

She stopped, and shook her head.

"Just tell me," he said, quietly; and it wasn't demanding, or impatient. It was a simple, reassuring plea.

"Fine," she said; she was never good at putting things gently, anyway. "I'm not  _just_ an occlumens," she said, quietly, "I'm also — Gerald, I can do legilimency, too."

"Well, of course you can," he said, slightly puzzled, "I realised you must be able to, once you told me how advanced you were. You can't get that far, multi-layered defences, and false memory links, and the other sorts of things in the books we've discussed, without a thorough understanding of —"

Then, suddenly, as if he'd suddenly realised what he was saying, what  _she_  was saying, his eyes went very wide, and he shook his head, firmly. "No."

"It's true," she said, a bit forlornly, like she wished it wasn't, "I  _can_ do it. But I don't — I use it defensively, like you said, or sometimes by accident — but I've never used it with you, I promise I haven't."

"I know you haven't," he said; he was still remarkably calm. "I'm fairly certain I'd feel it, if you did. But —"

"I don't know," she said, 'I'm… very good at subtlety, actually." Damn it; why had she told him that? Now it made it sound as if she  _had_ been reading him, even though she'd been honest in saying she never had.

"I could tell when —" he shook his head; whatever he'd been about to say, he thought better of it, or he had decided that the thing he said next was more important. "Anyway, Calista, the answer is no. It's very sweet of you to think of, and to offer, but there's simply no way I'm going to let you do that."

"You don't even know what my plan is, yet," she said feeling wounded; she'd come up with something concrete she could  _do,_ to help him, and he was refusing without even hearing her out.

"Yes, I do; you want to use legilimency to read his thoughts, and find out what the letters are all about. Is that correct?"

"More or less."

"Well," he said, "Can you do it from here? Or anywhere else that's at least a hundred kilometres from where  _he_ is?"

She snarled. "Of course I can't."

"Then the plan isn't going to work," he said firmly, "I'm not letting him get anywhere near you; I'm not letting him find out you even  _exist_."

"Gerald, just listen," she said, "It's the perfect plan, the  _only_ plan — I wouldn't even have to  _talk_ to him, really, I just need to be able to make eye contact —"

"No."

His voice was strained, but his jaw was set with determination.

"He doesn't have to know who I am," she said, quietly; she knew it was coming out pleadingly, and that annoyed her; until she'd offered and he'd said  _no_  she hadn't realised how badly she wanted —  _needed_ — to be able to help him with this, after everything he'd helped her through. "I could just —"

" _No_ ," he said again, "It's not up for debate, all right? There are very few things I won't hear you out on — actually, I think this is the  _only_ thing I won't hear you out on — but my mind is made up, and  _I will not allow it_."

She scowled. "You sound like my Dad."

"Yes, well," he latched onto that, "Why don't you ask him what  _he_  thinks of this plan of yours —"

"It was his idea."

"I'm certain he'll say exactly what I am, that it's reckless, that it's — " he stopped. "What?"

"It was his idea," she repeated, "He said I had to be careful, and alert, and discreet — all things I've proven to him I can do."

"Then he doesn't understand," Gerald insisted, "He'd hurt you, Calista, I know he would; for no other reason than because it would hurt  _me_ , if he did."

Calista remembered what her father had said, about the sort of man Gerald's father had to be, to hurt his children the way he had.

_Men who are of the sort that would abuse their own children simply to feel powerful usually are not very powerful at all…_

She almost said as much, to Gerald, but then she realised she  _could_ be wrong; Severus could be wrong. She suspected that her father's opinion had come from his own experience; and if she were to use  _her_  own experience…

"Why does he do it?" she asked, quietly. "Why does he want to hurt you?"

"Do they ever really have a reason?" he asked; it seemed to be a genuine question, rather than rhetorical, especially given the way that his eyes had latched onto her face suddenly, as if he really was interested in the answer; as if he really thought she could give him one.

"My mother did."

She said it before she realised that admitting that came dangerously close to admitting the lengths her mother had gone to…but he'd accepted the truth of her being a legilmens so easily. Maybe there  _was_ a chance he could accept the rest of it...

"She… well, the things she wanted me to do, under the Imperius Curse…" she saw his eyes flicker, and if it had been with pity it might have been as bad as horror, and she wouldn't have been able to go on; but it wasn't either of those things. He reached for her hands, and that made her feel a little bit bolder. "She wanted me to  _want_ to do those things, eventually," she admitted, "To… well, to be like  _her_. One of —  _them_. A Death Eater…"

Of course, there had always been another option with Bellatrix; a secondary plan, if the first one failed. She could almost hear her mother's voice, cold and dismissive, in the back of her mind.  _You'll be a servant, or you'll be a sacrifice._

"As if you could ever be anything like her," Gerald said, contempt creeping into his tone, "The very notion is absurd…"

"Well, the Ministry thinks I am," she reminded him, "And even Professor Flitwick told me… that  _she_  used to be creative with runic magic, too."

Gerald set his mouth, firmly, and he tugged her slightly closer, by their joined hands.

"The  _Ministry_  doesn't think that," he corrected, "A few bigots within it, who don't even know you, do."

"Well, what about she second thing?" she whispered. She felt a flicker of fear, for even posing the question; she hadn't really admitted aloud before that Flitwick's words had been weighing on her, along with everything else.

"I have to admit, I've struggled with a lot of that myself," Gerald said; for a second she was certain he meant that he had somehow already  _known_ the things she had in common with her mother, and didn't like them; she wondered, wildly and not for the first time, if she looked too much like her; but then, Gerald shook his head and continued:

"My father was in Ravenclaw, too, and we have the same wand core. Unicorn tail hair."

She allowed a small ghost of a smile. "That's what my core is, too," she said.

"Well, now I feel a little better about that," Gerald said, and for a second, a mirroring smile flickered across his features. "But there are other things. People always tell me I have his eyes; we both wear glasses. He —" he paused, and shook his head. "This is the difficult part," he explained, "The thing I don't like to admit…"

"You don't have to," she said quickly, but he squeezed her hands, and looked at her.

"I think maybe I do," he said, "I… I suppose it's the one thing that I've always been a little bit afraid you wouldn't understand, and so I've never wanted you to know… but it's only right that I take the chance, and tell you, if I keep expecting you to do the same with me."

"All right, then," she said, quietly. She felt one of the snakes slither back into her gut, unwelcome. What could Gerald possibly be afraid to tell _her_? "What is it?"

He hesitated, and glanced away, at the ground.

"I've told you he drinks," Gerald said. Calista nodded.

"Well, it's — it wasn't always as bad as it is, now," he said, "It used to be… just sometimes, and then that quickly became  _most_ of the time, and then  _all_ the time; and it's not only that. He gambles, too, and just like with the drinking, he can't stop once he's started. And then, I think, with the… the things he did to me. Sometimes I had this idea that he wanted to stop, but he was already so far in..."

She squeezed his hands, reassuringly, and his gaze flickered back up to her face.

"The thing is, I think I understand the feeling," he admitted; she could see that he was struggling to pull the words out his throat, and gods, she knew  _that_ feeling. She slipped even closer, and let go of one of his hands to rest hers on his shoulder, instead, her customary gesture of reassurance when he seemed upset. It seemed to help; his shoulders straightened somewhat, and he went on.

"It's not always fear, and nightmares, that keep me awake all night," he said, "Sometimes it's… something I'm working on. Research, or a book I can't put down, or… lately, a letter to you. I can't… it's like I can't stop thinking, can't turn my mind off, even when I want to. And that's what…"

He swallowed. "That's what Mum says he was like, at first. It was how they met… she was taking post-secondary classes, and he was teaching one of them, a history class — er, Muggle history. It was a night class he'd decided to teach on a whim, because he knew the subject and liked being in the classroom. Or at least, that's what he told her. I wonder, sometimes, if…"

He stopped, and shook his head. "At any rate, Mum says he started drinking, and...other things… to help him sleep. To… turn off his mind, I guess he used to tell her. And then, if it ever  _had_  been classes, and learning, and all the things she remembers being drawn to him for that motivated him, things changed. By the time I can remember anything, it was alcohol, and potions — he abused them for their side effects — and money. We never had enough; probably because he always lost it, at the pub, betting on  _Quidditch_. He used to shout at Mum, all the time, about that, as if  _she_ were the reason we didn't have any. That's why she gave up taking classes. To work a second job, instead, thinking it might make him less angry…"

"But it didn't," Calista said quietly, "Of course it didn't."

She also caught the twist of his mouth, as he said  _Quidditch_ , and she thought she understood, suddenly, why he'd never really cared for the sport.

"No, it didn't," Gerald agreed, "It just — left him home, alone, with me."

"I know what that's like," she murmured. "I used to try to hide…"

Gerald nodded, tightly. "Me, too, until Mum had Terry… after that, I'd try to draw his attention, when he was in that mood. So it would be me, instead…"

"You were so brave," she managed; she knew she couldn't do the same thing he had done. It was good she hadn't had to.

"I wasn't," Gerald said, shaking his head, now. "I'm not; that's what I'm trying to tell you… I'm afraid, because…"

For once, she didn't need him to explain. This, she understood with perfect clarity.

"I know," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "You're afraid you'll be like him, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said miserably, "That's why I won't drink, ever. I'd rather people think I'm stuffy than risk falling into the same trap. I won't take anything, either, to help me sleep. What if I did, and then…. And then, suddenly, I  _had_ to?"

"I don't think you could ever be like him, Gerald, not from everything you've told me about him."

"What about what I've told you about  _me_ , just now?" Gerald said, "I have… the same tendency, don't I? I get too focused on things. I obsess, I can't let them go."

"I do that, too."

"Not like this," Gerald said, and here he seemed to have reached the crux of what he was afraid to tell her; his voice came out low, and strained. "Calista, do you have any idea how many letters I've written to the Ministry, about the dementors?"

"I thought it was only one."

"Six," he said, miserably. "I kept thinking, when they didn't respond the way I wanted them to — that I must have explained it wrong, I ought to try again, organise my thoughts better... Offer more convincing arguments."

She couldn't help the small flicker of a smile. "I don't know," she said, "That doesn't sound so bad, to me. I think it's…"

"Don't," he whispered.

She stopped. "What?"

"Don't say it's nice. Or brave. Or anything like that. It's not, because I can't  _help_ it."

She frowned, and tried to understand. "I think you're being too hard on yourself," she said, finally, "And, yes, I do realise that's rather ironic, coming from me…"

He managed a small, dark chuckle at that, and lifted her hand off his shoulder, kissing the back of it so reflexively that it bordered on absently. "It is," he agreed, but she thought he did look slightly less weighed down.

"You said, before, that you wished you were more stubborn," Calista said, and suddenly an awful lot of things from the last several months were falling into place, lining up in neat logical order in her mind. "And I think you  _are_ , whenever you're helping someone else. You didn't keep writing those letters to the Ministry because you wanted them to agree that you were right; you kept writing them because you were trying to help  _me_. You brought your testimony to the Wizengamot..."

He swallowed, and she could see the smile slipping away from his features. She pressed on. "So that you could protect your younger brother. Even your research, Gerald… Modified shield charms, and your Armour Charm. Those are going to help a lot of people, someday."

She shifted her hand, the one he had kissed and was still holding, and cupped his cheek. "You probably have a valid point, about not drinking, just in case — and fine, don't bet on Quidditch matches. But the rest of it?"

She shook her head. "You're too focused on — what, helping people? Gerald,  _mea dulcis noctua_ , that's not an addiction, that's just  _you,_  being a good person, because it's what you are."

She could practically see her words making sense to him; and she saw her rare romantic endearment acting on him precisely the way she'd hoped it would.

"That's not fair," he murmured, softening visibly. "You know I can't argue with — or resist — a beautiful girl speaking Latin."

She smirked. "Let's make it fair, then," she countered, "Say  _that_  again, in French."

He grinned; the remaining shadows dropped from his eyes. " _Ce n'est pas juste, mon colibri. Je ne peux pas résister à une belle fille qui me parle en latin_."

She felt herself blush deeply, evening the playing field; even though he'd already said essentially the same thing, it definitely sounded better in French.

" _Ergo, ne resistes_ ," she managed.  _So don't resist, then._  She brought her other hand up, to the other side of his face, and kissed him, quite a bit softer than she had earlier, but with no less intensity.

" _Ma bien-aimée,_ " Gerald said softly, when they broke apart briefly, both slightly out of breath, "I thought I was the one with the assignment, but you've just earned an 'O' in flirting…"

She grinned. "I thought you knew; I don't settle for less than top marks, either."

She kissed him again, and he showed no signs of resistance at all.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista went right to her dormitory room, once she arrived reluctantly back in the castle; she had planned on talking to her father, to ask his advice for convincing Gerald to change his mind about the plan to find out what his father wanted with the letters, but there were two problems with that: firstly, he was in a foul temper, which she'd quickly deduced when he scowled at her and Gerald approaching the gate, and secondly…

Well, secondly, quite frankly, she wasn't in a fit state to talk in a normal sort of voice with  _anyone_ , after nearly a full day of flirting with, and kissing, and cuddling Gerald. She knew her cheeks were probably still pink, her eyes probably a bit faraway — maybe a bit something  _else_ , too, something like what she'd glimpsed, in his.

She wished… well, she wished she could have stayed with him longer, but aside from being impossible, it was probably a bad idea, really, for a number of reasons. There was a very serious reason: the more time she spent with him, the easier it was becoming to tell him things… and the more she worried that she might recklessly decide to tell him  _certain_ things… of course, there was a much more  _fun_ reason that staying longer would have been risky, and that was the more appealing train of thought to follow, when she arrived in her dorm room and discovered she had it all to herself, for once.

She rolled onto her bed, on top of the covers, still in all of her clothes; she kicked her shoes off the end, and snatched her pillow; for once, it wasn't occupied by Yellow, so she supposed he must be in her  _other_  bedroom, the one in her father's quarters. She closed her eyes, clutching the pillow to herself, and savoured her favourite parts of the day.

There was the necklace; she didn't think she wanted to wear any of her others, now. There was the way his hands had fumbled with the delicate clasp, and… there was his mouth, on her neck, and then his mouth  _in general_. She thought about all the kissing they had done — and there had been quite a lot of it — and she heard herself sigh, embarrassingly. Thank Merlin she  _did_ have the room to herself. She thought even Yellow might have looked at her disdainfully for  _that_.

Once she'd begun replaying the memories of the afternoon, it was really only a brief step to imagination, of things she'd  _wanted_  to do, but hadn't; and it wasn't as if it was the first time she'd let herself do that, it was just… the distance from imagining certain things to being bold enough to try them didn't seem as vast as it used to. She remembered being bold enough, once, to unfasten the top button of his shirt, and kiss the hollow at the center of his collarbone; she wanted to do that again,  _especially_ if the shirt was blue…

She imagined taking that further, too; unbuttoning two buttons, or three, or all of them. She tried to imagine what he might look like, without the shirt altogether, and she was glad the room was  _dark_ aside from being empty, because she knew her cheeks were on fire. He'd be completely perfect and adorable, of course; and though she couldn't let herself imagine him returning the favour, not without thinking of her scars, she  _could_ imagine his hands on her skin, at her waist, or sliding down from her shoulders…

But of course, he never did that; he never touched any of her skin that he couldn't see, and he never pawed at her through her clothes, either, like someone  _else_  had been fond of doing. He was always very polite. Very… well, the word she'd used before was  _respectful_ , and it was apt. Perhaps  _too_ apt; but then, she certainly preferred this, wanting more than she was getting, to Marcus' groping where she wasn't sure she'd wanted him to go. It occurred to her that she'd been just fine with her father's rules about sneaking off alone when it was Marcus — grateful for them, even — but now… well, she couldn't suppress a small, mischievous grin, or the thought that perhaps her father ought to be relieved that Gerald had already graduated. Not that she was ready for  _everything_ , of course, but… she imagined meeting him in the library at night, kissing his collarbone again, and nuzzling and kissing his neck, both of their hands wandering, and  _damn it, this wasn't helping_ , she had to be to dinner in half an hour and she was in no fit state for that.

 _All right_ , Calista thought, a few moments later, at the formerly hair-twirling girl inside her whose fault this had undoubtedly been,  _you've had your fun. Now stop that, so I can figure out how to convince him that my legilimency plan is safe._

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Thanks to the combination of occlumency and a cold shower, Calista composed herself in time for dinner, and then went straight to her father's office, after; and then, almost immediately, she backed away, towards the door.

He was in a foul mood. If it hadn't been a weekend, she'd have sworn that someone had blown up a cauldron in his classroom.

She'd tried, briefly, to ask him what was going on, and whether he had time to talk — after searching her face and demanding to know whether she was in any sort of trouble — she wasn't — he'd only managed to snap and mutter something about  _Potter_  and  _Lupin_  and  _that blasted parchment_. Something about filthy, untrustworthy liars, too. She slipped back out of the office, before he had a chance to find fault with her.

Lupin, though; that gave her an idea that she frankly couldn't believe she hadn't thought of before. It was technically after dark, but it wasn't even close to curfew, and anyway, once she was with a professor, she'd hardly be alone; that was her justification, as she hurried through the corridors, and stopped in front of a familiar office door.

She expected it to be shut, and truthfully, she expected he wouldn't be there; it was late enough in the evening that she expected he'd have already gone to his quarters, but she'd decided to check anyway. She was glad she had; the door was ajar, and the light from within was bright, cheerful, and welcoming.

She tapped on the door, even though it was open. Professor Lupin's eyes were already on the doorway, and he invited her in rather as if he'd been expecting her. There was a largish sheet of parchment covering the surface of his desk, and he folded it up and deposited it in his desk with one hand while waving her in with the other.

"Hello, Calista," he said, pleasantly enough, though without his customary mild smile. "Have you come to discuss your essay?"

She slipped into the office properly, and eased the door most of the way shut behind her. She didn't really relish the idea of anyone overhearing what she was planning on asking him.

"Not exactly." He waved again, this time at the chair in front of his desk. She perched on the edge of it. She couldn't just  _open_  with what she'd come here for, though… she looked around for inspiration, but there wasn't much in the office besides the battered suitcase and the bookshelves that didn't hold a single volume she hadn't already read. It held a lot of other things, though: chipped mugs, and a teapot, and various knickknacks.

"No creatures in here this time," she observed.

His mouth twitched, and she thought he looked at her a bit oddly for a second; but then, he relaxed, and she thought it must have been her imagination.

"No," he agreed, "We've just begun our vampire unit, in third year. It didn't seem prudent to keep one in my office."

Calista grinned, and suddenly Remus was mirroring it, and  _damn it_ , now she was thinking of him as Remus again; but then, that was good, really, considering why she'd come.

"Good call. I can think of a few other creatures you might want to skip the interaction piece with," Calista said, and then there was that funny  _look_  again; and again, it passed so quickly she wasn't sure if she'd really caught it.

"Is that so?" Remus asked, and his tone was light, but something about it seemed  _off_  to her, "Which ones?"

"Dragons," she said, "Inferi." She shivered. "Dementors."

Remus relaxed, then; he leaned back slightly in his chair, and studied her. "Speaking of the latter…"

"Still working on it. Did you know Syrio Sparkman has another book out? Ger — erm, I received it for Christmas."

Remus smiled. "That seems like a very thoughtful gift. Whoever gave it to you must know you quite well."

She felt a flood of warmth, in her chest. She nodded.

Remus' smile shifted, and then he was studying her again. He wasn't particularly subtle; she wondered if he thought he was.

"Professor Flitwick told me what happened, with your Ministry interview," he said, carefully; she frowned, but it was really the perfect opening to the topic she'd come here for…

"Yeah," she said, "I suppose I shouldn't really be surprised."

Remus quirked a brow. "No?"

"Oh, I'm used to it by now. Mostly. You must have heard the rumours, that I was the one helping Sirius Black into the castle?"

He hesitated, and nodded. "It was one of the wilder theories I heard," he admitted.

She was more relieved than she'd realised she would be, when he dismissed the theory so easily.

"I've been judged my whole life because of — " she swallowed, "Who I am. Who  _she_ is. People assume they know… but they don't. I can't do anything about that, so I usually just do my best to ignore it."

Remus smiled sadly. "I've yet to devise a better tactic," he said, which struck her as an odd thing to say, but she pushed on, anyway:

"It's just — with everything else… it felt awful, but it didn't  _matter_. The rumours… at times, they've made me unpopular, or lonely, or…"

 _Questioning whether there might be some truth to them;_  but he couldn't tell him that. She shook her head, and tried again: "I thought it was the worst it was going to get, when they wouldn't let me have the Time Turner, because of her. I guess before that it was just individual people, deciding I was evil, or — or whatever they decided. Third year, though… that was the first time I realised that being who I was could cost me a lot more than just friends and… and the ability to get a decent night's sleep."

She felt her stomach clench; she hadn't really meant to admit that much. But then, it wasn't as if he didn't know about the nightmares; and that was the problem, she was seeing him sitting here, in his office, but she was also  _still_  seeing him in that ages-ago sitting room, using books to bait her towards the ability to trust.

Remus frowned. "You always had a difficult lot," he said, hesitantly, and a bit regretfully, "But that was the first time that you experienced — ah, o _fficial_  discrimination, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "I guess you could call it that. And now… now that the letter has ended up in my application files somehow — which no one can seem to explain — it's just…"

She shook her head; damn it, she could feel an upwelling of emotion in her gut, threatening to creep up her throat. She hadn't realised it would be so difficult to verbalise it to him. It was much more difficult, for some reason, than it had been with her father or with Professor Flitwick; perhaps it was because he really  _didn't_  know her all that well, and she was a little bit afraid that he'd suddenly side with the letter.

"I think it's a little bit like what you all said, a long time ago," she said, very quietly; in the back of her mind, she could see their eyes on her, all of them. She had felt so small, so alone, so  _afraid_ ; and she could still remember what they had said, because if the letter was her first example of  _official_ discrimination, then that freshly-scrubbed kitchen table, over a decade ago, had been her first exposure to  _unofficial_ discrimination.

"Like what who said?" Remus prodded, gently, when she didn't immediately go on.

"You," she said, a little bit louder. "All of you, when — when he brought me there, to that house."

He blanched. "You remember that night?"

She laughed, darkly and utterly without humour. "How could I forget? It was — the most terrified I had ever been. I was afraid of my mother, and I hated her, but she was the only person I really knew; and then, I was snatched away from her in the middle of the night —"

Her eyes were burning now, but she most certainly would  _not_  cry. She forced herself to stop, to take a breath. She felt, suddenly, the slight weight of her new necklace around her neck, and she touched the pendant, recalling the runes on its reverse.  _Strength. Light._  She exhaled, and went on.

"You have to understand, she always told me that the terrible things she did to me were for my protection; it was everyone  _else_ that really wanted to hurt me. The Muggles would take my magic away; she was just trying to stop them from having the chance. Her enemies — all of you — would lock me away, and torture me for information, and then kill me, and that was why she had to keep me at her side, all the time, and hurt me when I disobeyed her, or tried to run away."

A pained expression flashed across his features briefly; and then, he rearranged them, and buried it, and looked at her with his characteristic mild concern, and she thought that perhaps he was better at hiding his thoughts than she'd initially thought.

"And then," she said, still running her fingers over the pendant; she could feel the grooves of the feathers on the hummingbird's wings with her index finger, and the familiar lines of the runes with the pad of her thumb. "There I was, being held in a place I didn't know with people I was raised to be afraid of, and you were all discussing me like exactly what she'd said, a source of information…"

"That — wasn't what any of us intended, Chl — Calista."

"I understand that now, of course," she said, "I just didn't, then. There were moments — kind words, or… or…"

She had a flash of remembering the woman, Lily, whom she now knew had been Harry Potter's mother; she had seemed to radiate with something Calista had never seen before, and it had fascinated her, and sometimes briefly disarmed her. She realised now that it had been warmth.

"Things," she finished lamely, "I'd forget to be afraid, for a second — but then I thought it was a trick, so I would run away, before I could be fooled again."

Remus spoke again then, voice soft and slightly hoarse, but still terribly familiar. For a moment, the office around them almost dissolved into the past, like the visions that had materialised out of the Pensieve, one after the other.

"I wish I had known better how to help you. I wish we had all known better, and done better."

"I think you knew better than any of the rest of them," she said, "Or cared more, at any rate. Besides the first night, and — and meeting Dumbledore and thinking he was there to kill me — I don't really remember very much, from that place. But I  _do_  remember you, reading to me and trying to learn my name. I used to —" she smirked, grimly. "I used to feel… not happy, exactly, when you would come, but…  _still_ , if that makes any sense."

"I'm not certain if I understand; and I think you're giving me more credit than I earned. I still failed to really help you."

She frowned, trying to think of how to explain what she meant. "I suppose I just felt like — I didn't need to hide, or to run, as long as you were sitting there, reading. And… not moving. Not coming towards me. I could just sit, and listen, and if I didn't exactly feel  _safe_ , at least I didn't feel particularly threatened."

He smiled, softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes; she thought he might be trying to guard them, but they still looked sad.

"I liked the book you had about unicorns the best," she admitted, "I wanted to see one so badly; it was one of the first things I ever remember wanting. You told me no one had ever taken a photograph of one. I remember that too, because I was disappointed."

He chuckled a bit, then, and it lifted much of the weight, in the room. She was suddenly glad for that. "A perfectly normal sentiment for a little girl of the age you were, as I understand it."

"Perfectly normal? I'm not sure if I've ever been described that way." A smirk flitted over her face, and finally, she felt like it was okay to let go of the hummingbird pendant. "Anyway, I actually came here to ask you something very specific, and that memory, of all of you sitting around discussing the 'risk' I posed — that's what made me think to ask you."

"Oh?" Remus' brow went slightly up.

"That letter wasn't supposed to be among my files. I've been told that a leak from the Department of Mysteries, which is what I first thought happened, is next to impossible."

Remus frowned. "I don't know much about that department," he admitted, "Though I daresay that's by design."

"Well… it's been suggested to me that there might be someone else who would want that letter in the open… someone who might be acting on instruction from, or out of loyalty to the very person who would delight most in my misery."

He wasn't dense, that was certain; he knew exactly who she meant. His brow rose further, nearly to his hairline. "You think Bellatrix may have somehow orchestrated the release of the letter?"

"She would, if she knew it existed, and I think she'd find the irony of it… amusing."

She didn't mention that there was a very good chance her mother  _did_ know it existed, because that would involve admitting to her mother's attacks on her mind. It was different, talking to him about the things he'd already been a part of, and ostensibly already understood to a degree.

His expression was curious, inquisitive, and slightly puzzled; he hadn't yet made the leap, from Bellatrix orchestrating the scheme to the person who may have carried it out…

"The only thing that doesn't quite make sense, about what's been suggested to me, is that — even though they were obviously working for the same side — I remember them hating each other. It's hard to imagine that he would act on her orders — but it occurs to me that I was very small, and I might not have seen something an adult would have."

She leaned forward. "Do you think — you knew him, R — Professor Lupin. You were his friend. Sirius Black. Do you think he could have stolen the letter from my school file, when he broke into the school?"

He started, and his expression closed off at once; she nearly started, too. She'd wondered, possibly even  _suspected_ , but now she was certain — Remus Lupin was an Occlumens.

Which meant, that when he looked away, shaking his head abruptly, and told her curtly that it was impossible, she had no idea if he was telling the truth or not.

"I didn't meant to upset you; I'm sorry," she ventured, cautiously; not because she particularly  _was_ , but because she wanted him to look up at her again. She couldn't very well draw her wand and cast  _Legilimens_  on him, but perhaps if he would meet her gaze again, she could —

"It's late, Miss Snape. I think you should go."

"But — I was just  _asking_  —"

He stood, and his gaze went over her head, in the direction of the door, which was still slightly ajar; he lifted his wand in her direction, and she couldn't help it, she flinched slightly, but he was just opening the door wider.

He did soften slightly, when he saw her flinch, and he slipped his wand back into his pocket.

"Good night," he said, softly. It was much kinder than what he'd said a moment ago, but it was still a clear dismissal. Then, behind her, as she left:

"Give your father my best; and tell him the next time he wants to question me, I'd appreciate it if he did so himself, instead of sending his teenaged daughter."

She blinked, and turned around. "That's not — he didn't —"

The door was already shut firmly behind her.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus scrawled a 'D' across the third essay in a row — really, it was a miracle some of these dunderheads knew which end of their wand to point at things — and scowled down at the dwindling stack of parchment.

He  _knew_  Potter had been in Hogsmeade, and he knew that blasted parchment he'd confiscated had helped him get there. He was more certain than ever, now, that Lupin could not be trusted — at best, he was aiding Potter in breaking rules that would surely end with him getting killed out of some sort of post-mortem loyalty to his old partner-in-crime; at worst, he had supplied the parchment to Potter himself, and probably supplied a copy of it to Black, too.

He had to speak with the Headmaster again, and force the older man to hear him out. There was too much at stake to ignore the obvious threat that Lupin's presence posed, and that was doubly so if he really  _was_  aiding Black.

He would have to approach it from the Headmaster's favourite angle — the boy. Potter. Lupin was putting  _Potter_  at risk, Dumbledore ought to listen to that logic; he knew by now that  _he_  was the only one that would look out for his primary concern, his own daughter.

He felt an unpleasant twinge of guilt, when he thought of her; he knew he hadn't been very kind to her earlier, when she'd come to see him after dinner. He'd been preoccupied, with trying to figure out how to catch Lupin his lie; in trying to determine how he could make the Headmaster see, at last, that Lupin could not be trusted, and — to his endless frustration — in trying to devise a plan to save Potter's skin  _yet again_ , even though the reasons for doing so were growing rapidly less compelling.

She was used to his temper, for certain, and she usually knew enough to realise when it wasn't directed at her, but still; he remembered that she'd seemed uneasy that morning, when he'd walked with her to the gate. She had told him that she planned on revealing to Mr. Boot that she was a legilimens, and he knew she was afraid he wouldn't take it well. He'd meant to reassure her, during their walk, but he had still been thinking about his last conversation with Filius, regarding what he'd heard back from his contacts, about the letter in Calista's file, and he'd forgotten.

He didn't think the boy would take the news poorly; he was perceptive and he was well-read, and it was possible he already suspected she might possess the talent. Perhaps more importantly, the boy was incredibly fond of and utterly devoted to his daughter; he couldn't imagine a scenario, like Calista could, where Boot would shun her for revealing the nature of her talents - or, for that matter, for revealing much of anything else.

He had not been exaggerating, when he'd told Calista that he was reasonably assured of her safety, when she was in Boot's company; and it wasn't just because he knew how good the boy's Shield Charm was, or how competent his dueling skills were, in general — it was what he had told her, that she'd barely seemed to register: If it were at all within his power, Boot would  _never_  allow harm to come to Calista in his presence. He knew it, because he knew how Boot felt about her; knew it firsthand.

The difference was that Boot had won, in this version; it wasn't the foolish, bullying  _Quidditch star_  that had ultimately secured the affection of the girl - it was the skinny, wounded, bookish boy who saw her for everything she really was. He couldn't quite deny the grim satisfaction that gave him, at times, even if he knew it probably was a bit of an odd reaction.

Of course, it wasn't the same story, not by any means: if his own childhood had made him jumpy, and awkward, and bitter, Boot's had shaped him in an entirely different way. Boot was, evidently, the sort of boy who would come to his own rescue, and who would willingly expose his own vulnerabilities to gain the trust of the girl he cared for; Severus on the other hand, had apparently been the sort of boy who would just drift miserably along, clutching his vulnerability protectively to his chest, and then lash out at the one bright spot in his life the second she was in a position to spot it.

Calista, as the story' protagonist, was different, too. She was wounded herself, damaged in ways that Lily had probably been too sheltered to even understand, though he suspected she would have tried. She was also — by virtue of the very wounds she'd suffered — stronger, and fiercer, and far more jaded. If Lily was a doe, pure and good and kind, then Calista was another creature entirely; not a cat, precisely. Not anymore; she wasn't so aloof, these days, or so solitary.

Still, though; even if the players were different, the stage was eerily similar. Darkness was whispering, somewhere off stage, foreshadowing its presence in the next act, and Severus felt like he was the underappreciated stagehand, trying desperately to bring the house lights up, and evacuate the theatre before the curtain came up again. Perhaps, in his zeal to influence the script, he was guilty of forgetting, sometimes, that the actors were flesh and blood, and not just lines on the page.

He set his quill down, frowning. He really  _had_  been unnecessarily short with Calista earlier, when she had come to see him, and he'd only ascertained that she wasn't in immediate danger; that didn't mean that there wasn't something less immediate she might need.

Even if it was just company she was after, and even if he was a pretty poor version of it lately, he didn't feel right about driving her away;  _especially_ not when he recalled the way she had looked, only a week ago, when he'd had to break the news of Black's infiltration of the castle to her, and  _especially_ not when he had been reminded, again, of the distance from which the dementors could affect her.

He rose, and he already felt slightly better the instant he stepped out of his office and into the dungeon corridor, having made the decision to rectify at least one small, particular wrong.

She wasn't in the Slytherin common room, or in her dormitory; he ascertained that by quietly asking Miss Yaxley. It was after dark, but it wasn't past curfew yet, so there were a number of places he could look for her, where she might have gone with her friends. The library was most likely, so he checked there first. Granger was in there, predictably, but his daughter wasn't.

He recalled what Calista had said, when he'd told her, last year, that the victims of one of the basilisk attacks had been her friend Miss Clearwater, and Miss Granger.

 _I know her, too_ , Calista had said,  _I recommended some runes books to her_. He had perversely hoped they were still friendly, when he'd assigned a particular essay to Lupin's third-year class; it would have been too suspicious if he'd assigned it to a class containing one of her friends, but a friendly acquaintance, perhaps...

He'd hoped Granger would warn  _both_  of them, Potter and his daughter, and it had been a subtle enough action that he could maintain plausible deniability; but evidently, Granger was not as clever as he'd hoped. He should have known to trust his own observations, over those of his colleagues: as he'd originally suspected, she was good at parroting facts, not at thinking for herself.

When he didn't find Calista in the Owlery, either, he supposed she might well have gone to Ravenclaw Tower to see her friends, and that was well enough, as long as she didn't walk back alone. He decided to let it be, for now, and check in with her tomorrow; he didn't think she'd be pleased if he burst in on another House's common room looking for her; it was probably bad enough he'd checked Slytherin.

The path he took from the Owlery back down to the dungeons brought him by Lupin's office; he snarled half-heartedly at the partially open door as he went by, and was sorely tempted to enter, and remind Lupin that he had his eye on him, but he heard the murmur of the man's voice from within, and realised he wasn't alone. Later, then.

He continued on his way, but when he reached the end of the corridor and started down the stairs, he heard the firm thud of a closing door. Curiosity got the better of him, as it nearly always did; he trotted back up the steps, peering down the corridor; who had Lupin been talking to?

When he saw the answer, he froze, blood turning to solid ice in his veins; a flashback gripped him, rooting him to the spot; as the figure turned away, and took another path to the dungeons, he stayed, replaying a terrible image in in his mind.

_A long, twisting tunnel in the earth; darkness, pressing in. A crooked, solid wooden door, creaking as he pulled it open — and then, by the light of the moon streaking through narrow slots in the single room's boarded up windows, a hideous, twisted mass of fur and flesh and monstrous, gnashing teeth._

He'd seen this image before, countless times; it was an integral part of the fabric of his nightmares, as was the next one he always saw — the one that had not actually happened, but had come so devastatingly, terrifyingly close that part of his mind had always held onto it as if it had —

_Dirty, razor-sharp claws piercing waxy, white skin, rancid breath hot and wet and suddenly all around, teeth closing down and blood, so much blood — pouring out, the point of death; a grisly, thankless, unwitnessed death, that left nothing but a torn and mangled corpse behind._

It wasn't the first time he had been haunted, like this, but it was the  _worst_  time; because this time, it wasn't himself that he saw, broken and bleeding and forgotten on the floor of that wretched shack. It was the figure he had glimpsed, leaving the monster's office.

It was Calista.


	16. Chapter 16

It seemed to Calista that the universe was determined to make her pay in triplicate for the near-perfect day she'd had in Hogsmeade with Gerald, and for the support of her friends regarding the letter that had ended up in her Ministry file.

The first thing she'd noticed was that her father's mood had not gotten any better; in fact, since the day in Hogsmeade, he'd been an absolute nightmare. He was pushing her harder than ever in her legilimency lessons, and despite his earlier concern, their defence lessons were back to the old style of mock duels; true, he wasn't insisting she cast any particular spells, but his manner throughout them was harsh and overly critical, as if she were… well, frankly, as if she were any other student: perhaps even a Gryffindor student.

He had accused her, too, of roaming the corridors alone at night and lying to him about it, but when she'd asked him when she'd supposedly done that and where she was supposed to have gone, he'd changed the subject abruptly, with that look on his face that said he was biting back something he dearly wanted to shout at her. She had a feeling she knew what that was about, but it surprised her, after everything.

She had been making an awful lot of trips to the Owlery, it was true, and some of them were after dinner, but well before curfew. It was precisely the kind of thing he would have seized on, long ago, to try and keep her from writing to her boyfriend too much, but it bewildered her, because until now, he had always liked Gerald, and had even encouraged her to talk to him about the recovered memories.

She wondered, privately, if it was the gold necklace that had set him off; he hadn't said anything about it, but he must have noticed it, because even Terry had. She'd run into him in the owlery again, and he'd teased her about it, snarking that it was about time his brother realised you weren't supposed to buy your girlfriend books. When she'd replied that she liked the necklace but had no problem whatsoever with books either, Terry had rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'boring swot'.

It was quite possible, she reasoned with herself, that he thought the gift was inappropriately expensive — after all, she had initially sort of wondered if it was, despite having at least half a dozen pieces from Narcissa that were undoubtedly more costly; but that was different. And anyway — she almost wanted her father to bring it up, because she'd point out how much she had spent on the rare book she'd given Gerald for Christmas, and he'd been with her in the store and hadn't batted an eye then, which meant it wasn't the money he had a problem with, it was the fact that a boy was buying her jewelry, and if that was why he was being so bloody unreasonable lately, he would just have to accept the fact that she was almost eighteen years old now, and —

Calista frowned, and crossed her arms over her chest crossly, tossing her quill on the half-finished essay she'd barely written a word of in the last hour. Damn it, she was doing it again, having an argument with her father in her mind. She'd been doing it an awful lot lately; mostly because he was in such a foul mood lately that she couldn't stand being in a room with him long enough to actually start a real one.

She still had to see him for Potions class, and for her Sunday lessons — and if that weren't already unpleasant enough, she'd seen something in his mind, during one of their lessons, that was giving her fuel for a new round of nightmares.

She tried to suppress the image, now; that twisting, earthen tunnel again, and at the end of it she'd glimpsed a twisting, misshapen form full of teeth and fur.

She had seen it in a brief flash, only, and he'd refused to say anything when she questioned him; he'd only insisted she chase the vision again, but the truth was she didn't really want to see the rest of it. It didn't matter; it was haunting her dreams now, anyway. Perhaps she should have seen it as a welcome change, but it was only an addition, not a replacement, for the things that usually haunted her.

Unfortunately for Calista, her father was far from the only infuriating male in her life, of late. Gerald was still stubbornly refusing to let her help him by reading his father's thoughts, and — maddeningly — he was now ignoring any portion of her letters that made reference to it, deftly addressing everything else she wrote but essentially pretending that her plans or pleas to help were not there.

The third, and Calista dearly hoped, final blow also came from an infuriating male.

It came by owl about a week before the end of the month, in the form of a letter from her uncle; she felt a jolt of apprehension when she recognised his handwriting on the outside of the sealed envelope. He didn't write to her often, and though his last letter had been all right, none of the prior ones had been.

She'd opened the letter with trembling hands; by the time she reached the end of it, she had difficulty making out the words through the blur of threatening tears.

Calista,

I've just returned from a meeting with a colleague of mine who has an ear on the Internship Matching Committee, and I'm afraid I must break some difficult news to you. I trust you understand that this information was not obtained through traditional channels. To that end, I must ask you to keep this between you and I for the time being, so as not to risk my source's future cooperation.

I had the document in question removed from your file, but unfortunately I was not informed of it in time to prevent it from being seen, and discussed. The official word will not come out until the end of March, but it's looking like you will be offered internships in the permitting office of the Department of Magical Transportation and in the Wizengamot Administration Services; both unfortunately are clerical positions that will neither excite you nor, I think, assist you in achieving your ultimate goals.

There is good news, however. I have spoken at length with Madam Umbridge, who understands now how gravely she has wronged my beloved niece, and has expressed a sincere desire to correct it by any means necessary.

An additional undersecretary position will open soon in the Office of the Minister for Magic. You will be recommended to fill it, and an interview will be arranged. I can confidently assure you that any position within the Ministry you may wish to pursue in the future will be open to you after the experience and, I am certain, glowing recommendation you will receive from the Minister's Office.

I understand that the prospect of the interview might make you nervous, considering what happened at your last interview, but it is a necessary formality to avoid any unwelcome and mistaken impression of this being anything but an above-board arrangement. Myself and Madam Umbridge will accompany you to ensure everything goes smoothly; I trust that will comfort you.

We will speak soon on this, but prudence is advised at present.

Signed,

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy

Calista crumpled the letter up and stuffed it into her pocket, rising from her spot at the Slytherin table; she was suddenly sorry that she'd already eaten, because her stomach was clenching threateningly. She glanced reflexively up at the staff table, catching her father's eye — she'd show him the letter, and —

And as soon as she caught sight of him, she caught sight of his sour expression, and realised she didn't want his help in that particular moment, after all. He was rising already, perhaps as reflexively as she had looked to him; hastily, she shook her head, and then she rushed out of the Great Hall.

She had gotten perhaps fifteen steps down the corridor when she felt her father's presence behind her; she jerked her arm away just as he reached for her elbow, and he clawed at the air instead.

"Calista, what's wrong?"

"What do you care?" she snarled; his nostrils flared impatiently.

"I do not care for your attitude of late —" he started, and she cut him off.

"My attitude?" she challenged, keeping her voice low, because a few other students were straggling past them, now; it was almost time for the first class period of the day. "You've been such a beast lately that I'm surprised they haven't decided to move your office to the Forbidden Forest."

His lip curled. "I'm hardly the beast in this castle," he hissed; and there was something so peculiar in his eyes, a quiet intensity that made her take a half-step back, despite herself.

His expression shifted slightly; she supposed it was an attempt at softening, but it was a poor one. If anything, his mouth only twisted further.

"I saw you reading a letter," he persisted, almost petulantly, "Who was it from?"

The subtext was plain: who hurt you? She felt herself wavering, opened her mouth to tell him. And then:

"It's not from Boot, is it?"

She scowled, and any charitable thought she'd been close to having about him instantly evaporated.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she snarled, unconsciously reaching up to finger the hummingbird pendant; or maybe it wasn't unconscious, maybe she wanted him to finally say something ridiculous about it, so they could have the fight he so obviously wanted to have —

His nostrils flared again. "I don't have time for this. Tell me what's wrong."

"It would be quicker to give you a list of what isn't wrong," she retorted, "But I don't have time, either. I'm late for Charms."

She turned around and started walking away, and he matched her pace.

"You have Charms on Mondays," he pointed out, and his tone irritated her; it was so smug, or perhaps she just thought so after reading line after line of her uncle Lucius' words.

"Charms tutoring," she corrected, scathingly, "Unless you're going to tell me I'm not allowed?"

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"Well, it would make as much sense as everything else you've tried to forbid me from — walking in the corridors before curfew, for instance; going to the Owlery well before dark."

"When have I ever said you couldn't go to the Owlery?"

"Oh, that's right," she said, as they neared the Charms classroom, "You won't say it, because even you know it's unreasonable. You just act like a complete beast —" she used the word again, because it had gotten a rise out of him earlier; he flinched, and she felt a perverse prick of satisfaction. It was about damn time that he received even a taste of how he'd been making her feel, for nearly two weeks — "And hope that I'll just give up; but I'm not fourteen anymore, and this isn't Marcus, and I'm not afraid of you."

She glanced at him, expecting to see fury, but she only saw bewilderment, behind the trace of a sour snarl that she was beginning to suspect he didn't even realise he'd been wearing for days.

"What the hell are you —" he started; and then someone turned the corner, walking in their direction, passing close enough to overhear if they wanted to. He stopped speaking abruptly, and she followed his gaze to see who was walking by; she felt an uncomfortable stirring in her gut. It was Professor Lupin, who evidently still seemed to think that her father had sent her to talk to him, that day; he'd barely even looked at her in class since then.

He didn't seem to want to acknowledge their existence in the corridor any more than either of them wanted to acknowledge his; Calista saw him fix his gaze at some imaginary point on the horizon, and he quickened his pace. She huffed impatiently, waiting for him to be out of earshot, and then they had to wait for the second-year Ravenclaw she was meant to be tutoring to slip past her into the classroom with an uncertain smile.

She expected to see a similarly impatient look on her father's face when she looked back at him, but instead his expression had gone quite dark again.

"I keep trying to tell you," he hissed, quietly; at least he was sparing her the embarrassment of having the Ravenclaw girl in the classroom overhear, "that I'm not the one — not the beast —" his lip curled again, "That you need to be afraid of."

What the hell are you talking about? She wanted to counter; but if it really was Gerald that he had twisted his face up like that, she didn't want to know. It was one complication too many; instead of saying anything, she fingered the pendant again, and again there was something peculiar in his eyes, something oddly close to softening. He straightened, and before she could think what she ought to say, he clipped off a few parting words of his own, and then he was gone.

"I have a class to teach," he said, "But this discussion isn't over."

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

Encouragement and hope, when Calista finally got them, came from a rather unexpected source, or more accurately, two unexpected sources.

Tutoring wasn't proving as useful as revisions did, for a distraction; but then, the Ravenclaw girl hadn't exactly been a difficult student to tutor, either. Strange, perhaps, but not difficult.

"I do see what you're saying," the girl said, "And I think, in most instances, the standard incantation works just fine, but it's accounting for the presence of nargles that I can't seem to get the hang of…"

Calista blinked. She willed herself not to take out her irritation with her father on her charge, even if she suspected her charge was having her on. "Erm. I don't think I follow. Are you trying to say there are nargles in here?"

"Well, no, of course not," the girl replied, absentmindedly pushing a hank of silvery-blonde hair over her shoulder, "But it's in the Greenhouse where my Charm keeps failing, and naturally… well, the mistletoe, of course."

"All right. It's just —" Calista took a short breath, suppressing an urge to roll her eyes that was so strong it literally hurt, "Nargles are extinct, Luna. Everyone knows that."

"Oh, no," Luna said, with a small, knowing smile, "Everyone thinks that. Just because a lot of people think something is true, doesn't mean that it is true; wouldn't you agree?"

"I —" she narrowed her eyes; the girl was just being odd, wasn't she? She couldn't possibly… but with Uncle Lucius' letter still threatening to burn a hole in her pocket, it seemed, suddenly, like an awfully pointed remark. "What makes you think I'd agree?"

"Well," Luna shrugged, "Everyone says a Freezing Charm can't work on a person, but from what I've heard, you didn't let that stop you."

Calista blinked again, slightly mollified. She felt her irritation recede. "Oh."

"I was supposed to meet Cho for tutoring, you know; but I asked Professor Flitwick if you were available, because of course this particular charm is well-known to be your specialty."

"I — really?"

"Oh, yes, it's — well, your Freezing Charm is something of a legend, among Ravenclaws, didn't you realise?" Luna's pale brows shot up, as if it were unthinkable Calista wouldn't already know this.

"I supposed I didn't realise word had spread so far."

Luna laughed. "Oh, yes, it has indeed. In fact, when I told Cho I was meeting you to work on the Charm instead, she seemed a little envious." the girl frowned, reflecting, "I did rather hope you'd know how to account for the nargles, though."

"Erm — I'll do some research and see if I can find anything. Who told you about my Freezing Charm, anyway? Was it Amelia?"

"Amelia Slater? I'm sure she has, but as I said, it's really legend at this point." The blonde girl wrinkled her nose up slightly. "I suppose Gerry Boot might have been the one that I first heard it from, last year. Of course, I wasn't certain if I believed him until a few other people said it, mind you, because he —"

Luna paused, and quirked a small, sly smile. "Well, I could tell he had very strong feelings for you, because of all the xarbuckles, so I assumed he was exaggerating, until the story was corroborated."

"Erm — what?"

Luna wrinkled her nose again, looking mildly concerned. "He's your boyfriend, isn't he? Don't tell me I've heard that wrong, and I've just revealed a secret —"

"No, that's not — I mean, yes, he is my…" Calista felt a familiar warm prickle in her cheeks, "I mean, what in Merlin's name are xarbuckles?"

Luna's face lit up now. "Xarbuckles," she said again, as if it were common knowledge and she were explaining to Calista what a squirrel was, "Tiny creatures that burrow under your skin, and turn it red when they you're particularly attracted to someone — yes, see, you've got them now, in your cheeks! Gerry Boot always had them, when he talked about you, too."

Calista scowled, and willed her cheeks to cool. "That's called —" blushing; but it seemed suddenly absurd to admit to doing so in front of this odd second year, so she simply snapped, irritably, "There's no such thing as xarbuckles!"

Luna chuckled at that, seemingly unaffected by Calista's sudden irritation, "It's funny how eager people can be to dismiss what's right in front of their eyes," she said, and then: "Good for you, by the way; I think Gerry and his brother are both very cute."

Calista was mercifully spared from having to respond to that — Professor Flitwick came in then, through the door that connected his office to the classroom.

"Miss Snape!" he said brightly, "Ah, and Miss Lovegood. I trust your charm is coming along nicely with Miss Snape's help, yes?"

"Oh, she's a very good teacher, sir," Luna said, quite kindly, "But I do think that perhaps I could use further practise in the greenhouse, where the nargles are likely to be more of a problem."

Professor Flitwick looked briefly puzzled; for some reason, it struck Calista as amusing, and also prompted a surge of warmth towards him; he looked exactly how she'd been feeling, since she'd started her tutoring session.

"Well," the Professor said, after a moment, "I suppose I don't have any objections to that, if Miss Snape is amenable to meeting you there, next week."

Calista mumbled an agreement, which made Luna smile; then, the second-year bid them both a pleasant farewell, and before she'd even left the room, Professor Flitwick had marched up to Calista, positively beaming; he held out a sheet of parchment that looked like it had recently been folded in threes.

"I've just received this," he squeaked, gesturing for her to take the parchment, "Go on, then, have a look."

Calista took the proffered parchment, and felt her heart briefly soar —

Dear Mr. Flitwick,

We here on the Editing Panel of the Journal for Experimental Charms Research are in receipt of a particular piece titled 'Modern Runic Reformations of Common Charms' submitted by you on behalf of a Miss Calista Snape, and have had the opportunity to review it for consideration of inclusion in an upcoming issue.

We are pleased to inform you that we have determined the submitted piece to be worthy of publication. Although publication in our journal is considered a very prestigious honour of itself, there is also a nominal compensation we provide for material, outlined herein along with the anticipated publication date…

She skimmed the rest of the letter; they were going to pay her fifty Galleons for the article, and they wanted to publish it in the Fall 1994 volume, due out in September — all she had to do was sign, accepting the terms… but then…

Her stomach clenched, and her heart sank, as another piece of parchment tugged it down. She held the letter back out to Professor Flitwick with hands that suddenly trembled, for the second time that day.

"Professor, this is — it's very good news, but —"

"Very good news?" her professor echoed, and he grinned up at her, "My dear young lady, you're going to be the youngest witch or wizard to be published in the journal in almost a hundred years. I'd say that's splendid news!"

"But I've just received word —" she recalled, with a slight warning tingle at the back of her mind, that her uncle had bid her to keep this news secret, for now; but she didn't have to say where she'd heard it, after all, and she didn't have to be specific — and anyway, when she thought about it, she was still royally angry with her uncle for suggesting she accept a favour from that horrible toad Umbridge, and so she pressed on: "Er — that is, I think that I'm not going to get any of the internships I wanted — it sounds like… it sounds like possibly they'll end up offering me some sort of — permit office thing, or something."

"Pah!" Professor Flitwick tutted, "Permit office? What an absurd waste of talent that would be — you must remember, the decisions won't be final until the end of March at the latest, and this will certainly help your chances of securing something in the right field."

Calista felt something stirring in her gut; she realised it was a faint spark of hope. "Haven't the Matching Committee already reviewed the application packets, though?" she asked.

Professor Flitwick smiled. "Yes, well — your father and I haven't forgotten about your predicament, you know. We'll see that this gets into the right hands. You just keep up with everything you're doing — your research, your Independent Studies, your revisions, yes?"

Yes, it was hope; she even allowed a small smile now, slightly encouraged. "All right. I — thank you, Professor Flitwick."

"Ah, not at all, not at all — oh, yes, let's have you sign this, while you're here; September! That's not far off at all."

"It's not?" Calista considered everything that she had to manage before then; her N.E.W.T.s, the Advanced Magical Theory exam she was studying for, figuring out what to do regarding the blasted internships, finding a way to convince Gerald to let her help him…Getting her Patronus back, if she even could. "I suppose to me it seems ages away."

"Just wait until the Easter break," her professor assured her, "After that, time will fly by swifter than a thestral — it always does."

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

The following Tuesday, Calista received another owl, in an official-looking envelope from St. Mungo's. She had heard that the internship offers from the hospital and other private entities often came faster than the Ministry results — and here, at least, they knew nothing of the blasted letter, though of course her mother's identity was public record. Still; it didn't seem like the kind of thing they'd look into, at least not until after she was starting and they'd already chosen who would intern.

She took the letter, abandoning her breakfast. She had Potions first thing, and her father hadn't come to breakfast, so he was undoubtedly already in the classroom preparing for her class… even if he was insufferable lately, if this was bad news, she'd rather not face it by herself.

Of course, she reminded herself, as she hurried to the dungeons, even if she was being offered a place at St. Mungo's, it was very likely not going to be the one she actually wanted. Her thoughts had gone immediately to the Healer's apprenticeship she'd applied for, but she had also included an application for a Potions-brewing internship, as a safety, and she didn't need to have her Transfiguration scores excepted from consideration to qualify for that one.

Her father wasn't in the classroom, but he was in his office, going over some notes, and he looked up when she entered.

"I got something from St. Mungo's," she said, without pretense, and he set his quill down, expression shifting expectantly. "I don't know what it says yet," she added, "I was afraid to open it…"

Severus lifted a brow. "Why?"

"Well, even though they didn't get a copy of that letter — I mean, they still might not want me — they get a lot of applicants, there's probably someone more qualified —"

Severus snorted.

"Of course," Calista went on, unsealing the letter; would there come a day this month where her hands didn't tremble? "Even if I did get either of them, the st — the potions one, or the healer apprenticeship, neither of them pay much of anything, so it's not ideal…"

"Well, luckily I wasn't planning on charging you lease," Severus quipped tartly; Calista hardly heard him, as her eyes dropped to the first few lines of the letter.

Dear Ms. Snape,

We have received and reviewed your submitted materials along with your applications to the following positions:

Healer's Apprenticeship (1 year term)

6-month Educational Internship: Potions Brewing Department

We would like to thank you for your interest in furthering your education with a learning position at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, however, upon review of your submitted materials —

Calista looked up, throat constricting. "There's a 'however'," she managed to choke out; she forced her eyes back down to the parchment. Despite what she'd just said to her father, she had been certain she'd at least get the blasted Potions internship…

"However what?" her father snarled. Calista went on, reading aloud this time:

"'However, upon review of your submitted materials, we feel that your qualifications far exceed the guidelines set for our internships — wait, what? Exceed?" she fell silent, and skimmed the rest of the letter quickly, and silently:

— and thusly, we do not feel that you would extract significant benefit from our educational programs. We have taken the liberty of sharing your application materials with the Potions Brewing Department, and it is our understanding that they would like to extend a formal employment offer, contingent on your expected N.E.W.T.s and a meeting with the Department Head.

Please find further details from the Potions Brewing Department enclosed; any further communications regarding your future employment at St. Mungo's Hospital should be conducted through that channel, as we are closing your educational application file.

Thank you again for your interest, and for giving us the opportunity to review your impressive qualifications.

Regards,

Jolene Abernathy,

Head of Continuing Education Programming

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

"What?" Severus was on his feet now, peering over at the letter, "What have they said?"

She handed him the top sheet and read over the second one; by the time she was finished reading it, he was holding his hand out for it, impatiently.

"They… they're offering me a job," she said, slightly numb, handing over the second page, which was indeed an offer letter from the Head of the hospital's Potions Department, "A paid, full-time job — if I get the Potions N.E.W.T. and three others, and, I suppose, if the Head of the Department doesn't hate me when he meets me…"

Severus was reading the offer letter now, and his eyebrows shot up, as he looked at her over the top of it.

"This salary is more than I made, my first year teaching," he observed, wryly. "Obviously, I've chosen the wrong profession…"

"You can have it," Calista said, without realising in time that she'd said it out loud. She flushed slightly, "I mean — it's just not what I really wanted to do…"

Her father's expression closed off, slightly. "I suppose you still have the Ministry results to await."

She recalled the letter from Lucius, but then she also recalled what Professor Flitwick had told her. She glanced at the clock behind her, across from his desk; she didn't have time to explain the whole thing before class began.

"Yeah, maybe," she said, a bit listlessly.

"I seem to recall —" Severus started, and when she looked at him questioningly, he was already shaking his head.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, "Do you have your materials for class?"

"No, I have to go get them… I might as well get my stuff for History and Defence too, I suppose, for the afternoon —"

Severus snarled, and just like that, any brief and tentative peace they'd started to form disintegrated.

"Well, be quick about it," he snapped, "I will not tolerate tardiness, even from you."

"I don't think you even know the meaning of the word 'tolerate'," she snapped back in precisely the same tone; she took a particular satisfaction from pulling the door shut firmly behind her.

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

It was always easier to practise her Patronus charm after she received a letter from Gerald. It wasn't that she necessarily had more success, it was just that she felt brighter, more energised to try — more capable.

His last one had been no exception, for the most part. She closed her eyes and recalled her favourite words from it:

Mon beau colibri, tu me manques tellement. Tes beaux yeux noirs, et tes cheveux doux me manquent. Cependant, ce qui me manque le plus, c'est d'être auprès de toi pour te chuchoter à l'oreille et embrasser ta main.

She'd gotten the gist of it right away, but taking out her French dictionary to confirm and to fill in the blanks was her favourite part. My beautiful hummingbird, I miss you so much. I miss your beautiful black eyes, and I miss your soft hair. Most of all, I miss being near enough to whisper in your ear, to kiss your hand.

Thinking of it now, she felt a bright silver bubble of happiness and felt her cheeks growing warm — and suddenly Luna's xarbuckles flew to her mind and she bit her lip to keep from laughing at herself, and, all right, a little bit at Gerald, for being so unbelievably corny; but of course now she certainly didn't want him to stop.

She was feeling uncharacteristically light, so she tried to spell —

"Expecto Patronum!"

A tiny silver wisp fizzled out, but that was all right; she'd never gotten it to work on the strength of her happy memories alone, anyway. She shifted the words of the letter aside, and felt them settle back to their proper place in her memory. She plucked at a thread form that section and immediately felt the rush of warmth — the feeling she'd known the name of for quite some time, but still would not say aloud, and she gathered it, searching her mind for the other things she would need.

It wasn't her happiest memories she was seeking out, per se: it was the strongest, the ones that connected to her core, that made her her, and that gave her strength. She felt the light, solid pull of her friendships, Amelia and Penny and Percy and Sofia and Eva and all of them; there was Daisy, too, and the admiration that the younger girl had for her: the notion that Calista could be the sort of girl that others might look up to.

She reached for the strongest, the most central of the threads she knew she'd need for this: the deep, heavy hum of her father's love and protectiveness for her; even when he was acting a right bastard, as he was now, that never seemed to fade or change, and she could always summon it around her, like a thick winter cloak, when she needed it.

She plucked a few more threads, new additions to the tapestry of light she was trying to weave: the gossamer, tentative affection she had with her aunt Narcissa, the narrow cord of protectiveness that she felt, for her little cousin Draco; other narrow, multicoloured strands of connection that she had forged since the last time she'd accomplished it: Emily Yaxley, Professor Flitwick, and even, though he wasn't speak to her currently, Professor Lupin — Remus. They had all taught her something about being strong, and so they were all important.

She twisted the strands together, and concentrated on them, and pulled them up to the surface, focusing on channeling that, the elements of her strengths, through her wand.

"Expecto Patronum!"

There was a great rushing of energy, and a stream of silver light rushed forward from the tip of her wand, illuminating the near-darkness of late afternoon in her dungeon dormitory room.

A vivid cloud of light began to form - she saw the wavering, silvery form of a leg, or a tail, and then —

A flash of memory, the gleam of a blade; thick, heavy drops of red on a gleaming wood floor, and pain, hot and cold at the same time; a terrible, familiar shape, angry-red against pale, fragile skin…

"No," Calista muttered, and she tried to suppress this dark memory, tried to shove it aside, to bury it behind the deepest of her mental walls, but it slipped away, quick and slimy, a serpent of dread, slithering its way between all of the threads she'd gathered…

She was reading one of Gerald's letters, she could imagine his charming grin as he chose this particular phrasing, that particular rune — and then he sees the scars, and he drops the pen, his mouth and his eyes both going round with horror. Calista reaches for him, but he backs away, shaking his head. You have the Dark Mark.

Her friends are all gathered, here among multicoloured balloons and a hand-painted banner, and Amelia wants Calista to open her gifts, now. 'Mine first, you'll love it, it's brilliant,' her friend says, holding out the clumsily-wrapped package — and then she sees the scars, and the package falls to the floor, and Amelia's backing away, with Penny and Percy and the rest of them at her heels. Isn't that the sign? Her once-friend whispers, around the shape of her fear, The one they leave in the sky, when they kill my kind?

The imagines kept coming, as the memory of her mother, of the scars, touched every other memory in her mind, taunting and unstoppable — her friends, the people who mattered to her, finding out, and abandoning her; Daisy scrambling away from her in fear, mumbling that she was wrong, that Calista was just like her mother; Remus, shaking his head and lamenting that the darkness had already claimed her, that there'd never been a chance for her to be anything else. Aunt Narcissa, suddenly reverting to her ways in years past, murmuring that she understood, of course, how dreadfully Calista must miss her mother.

The memory-snake had reached the tangle of threads that represented Calista's father now, and it reared up an opened its mouth wide, venom dripping from its fangs.

"You can't," Calista whispered; or maybe she was only thinking it, the distinction hardly seemed to matter, "You can't turn him against me, he already knows everything."

Ah, the memory-snake cooed, in Bellatrix's voice, Yes he does, my daughter; but do you?

The serpent lunged, sinking sharp fangs into the cornerstone of her strongest memories; but Calista thought with a fierce, dismal sort of triumph that she was right, even the poison of this memory was not enough to taint the way her father saw her: she still felt the cloak of protection, still saw his eyes, dark with worry and with love, and she knew that would never change.

She heard, in the back of her mind, a cold echo of laughter, and even though she knew it was only a memory, that her mother was nowhere near, she shivered, and then…

Her father's eyes flash dangerously; and that's all right, too, she's seen that enough, and it's never been directed at her, and it isn't this time, either.

She felt a prick of alarm, despite herself. Something was wrong with this image.

He's younger; he's perhaps her own age, but that's not possible: she never knew him, then. He lifts his wand, eyes alight with the terrible gleam of rage, and then she notices the trembling form at the receiving end of it. It's no one she's ever seen before, it's a vague, shifting form; she can't even clearly make out the facial features —

"That's because this isn't a real memory," Calista reminded herself, stubbornly, "It's just… like everything else. It's just what I fear, it's not real."

Her father lifts his wand, and the trembling figure tries and fails to scramble away; she's seen the terror of flight at her mother's hands a hundred times, she knows what this is, but he wouldn't — he'd never — 'Imperio,' her father's voice is clear and strong and true, and oh gods, it's terrifying because she's heard that incantation in that voice, and suddenly it doesn't seem quite so implausible, 'Crucio!' He grins terribly, baring his teeth in a snarl, 'Avada Kedavra!'

"It isn't real," Calista murmurs to herself, again, feeling her own wand slip from her fingers and drop onto the carpeted floor with only the whispered suggestion of a sound, "None of it's real."

Her father stabs his wand in the air, punctuating each of his spells, just the way Bellatrix had always done — and then, his sleeve slides down, exposing the pale, scrawny forearm and the brand on it; twins to her mother's, shifting red and black — twisting, stark against the pallor of his skin: a hollowed skull, with a powerful, vicious serpent sliding from its mouth, ready to devour another victim.

'Now, really', a voice whispered, in the back of her mind, and she didn't even know if it was her mother's or her own, 'How can you know that, for certain?'

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

The pattern had revealed itself again; for every step Calista took forward, there were innumerable steps back. For every brilliant day in Hogsmeade she shared with her boyfriend, there were letters that promised her something she didn't even want in lieu of her stolen dreams; for every near-success at regaining her Patronus Charm, there followed an endless string of sleepless, nightmare-filled nights, and a parade of fear that stopped her from trying again.

For every moment she wore the protective mantle of her father's love for her, there were a dozen supercilious whispers, spoken in her ear around a forked tongue, reminding her that she really knew nothing of what he'd been before, of how he'd come to bear the Mark; of how he'd ended up with Bellatrix, and of how the two of them had borne her.

During her fitful bursts of haunted sleep, there were other demons and other ghosts that invaded, borrowed from those she cared about as if she didn't already have enough of her own: she could see Gerald, smaller and younger, cowering from a shadowy figure with his own eyes and breath that reeked of firewhiskey, and then she could see him getting up, shaky but determined, when those brown eyes looked over his shoulder, towards his baby brother; she could see Amelia, shrieking with pain and loss as she went home to South London to see the Dark Mark hanging over her parents' cosy home; she could see that third-year boy, Neville Longbottom, eyes round and sad, fixed on parents gone too mad to know who he was; could see him flinch and cower from the girl in the corridors that looked just like the woman that had stolen them away, in mind if not in body.

She could see, too, the twisting mass of flesh and fur and teeth that she'd glimpsed in her father's mind, and for the first time she wondered at the root for the attached fear she'd felt? What if it wasn't a real memory at all, and what if the one she'd seen fabricated in her own mind when her Patronus had failed again was? What if she'd glimpsed some sort of metaphorical representation in his mind for what he was, or what he'd been; what if that was what he'd been trying to tell her? That once, he had been every bit as monstrous as her mother?

The idea seemed ludicrous when it had first occurred to her, but then, as the days stretched on and his temper did not improve, as the nightmares outnumbered the moments of peaceful sleep, as she found herself awake, again and again, in the darkest parts of the night, it became harder and harder to discredit. It became harder to separate what part of her personal darkness was real, and what was only the shadow of fear, slinking into her mind, curling up, making itself at home.

She tried to hide behind a placid mask, tried to concentrate on her schoolwork, her revisions, and her friends during the daylight hours. She didn't know if she was fooling them; she knew she wasn't fooling her father, but she ignored the constant creep of his worried gaze over her, answered his snappish inquiries with baleful, snappish responses of her own, and refused to see him when his mouth was twisted in a grimace, his eyes flashing and hard; and if that meant that she never saw him, outside of when she had to, then that was less time that she had to consider what the imagine she'd seen in his mind really meant, and just how he'd come to bear the same mark on his arm that scarred her back.

She was just beginning to think that their distance was pleasing both of them, when the morning came that she realised it wasn't. It was a Saturday in the early half of March, and she forced herself to chew a mouthful of eggs without tasting them — even if she never felt like eating anymore, she didn't want to give her father, or her aunt, or her boyfriend an excuse to lecture her for not doing so, so she always ate just enough — when Severus rose unceremoniously from his place at the staff table, and appeared shortly thereafter at her shoulder, hovering behind the Slytherin table as if he were still a student that belonged there.

She rose quickly, in case he had the mad idea to sit down at the table after all — his behaviour had been so unpredictable in the last few weeks that she was afraid he might — he'd been snapping at Professor Lupin every chance he had, and by his own admission had gone to the Headmaster's office twice to petition for Lupin's removal, and had been doling out detentions like Cauldron Cakes for every student caught out of bed or out of bounds. She wondered, as she followed him out of the Great Hall, if she were going to receive a detention now, though Merlin knew what it could possibly be for.

"My lessons aren't supposed to be until tomorrow," she reminded him, as he turned down the staircase to the dungeons, and she followed.

"I'm well aware of that," he replied; she thought his voice sounded restrained, as if he had to stop himself from snapping at her, though she hadn't done anything wrong. They stopped at the entrance to the Slytherin common room. "Do whatever you need to do to get ready for an afternoon out of the castle," he told her, and then he tapped his foot impatiently against the stone floor, "Quickly, please."

She furrowed her brow. "What? Why? Where are we going?"

He pressed his mouth together, exhaling through his nose. "I'm taking you to Hogsmeade," he finally said, "I placed a book on order for your birthday present, and I've just received word that it's arrived."

A new book? She felt her mouth quirk slightly, despite herself; yes, it seemed odd. He could have had it delivered, and buying from the shop in Hogsmeade was strange in itself; there were several other bookstores he preferred. Still, a new book was a new book. Calista shrugged, and then nodded her agreement. "All right; I'll be done in — I don't know, ten minutes." She had showered and dressed that morning, and dragged a brush through her hair, but hadn't done much else.

He nodded, and she noted that he didn't seem as though he were going to go anywhere. He must be in a hurry; she supposed he had a potion to get to, or a lesson to plan in the afternoon, and again she wondered why he hadn't just had the book delivered, but she ran to her dormitory room and straightened her hair anyway, throwing a hairband in to keep the almost-spring breeze from blowing it in her face, and hunting through her wardrobe for a lighter top. It was that strange time of year where the drafty interior of the castle was often cooler than the air outside.

They didn't say much, as they trekked through the castle and down the path to the village; he paused at the gate to release his Patronus, and she watched the brilliant silver doe chase the dementors down, wondering again what it represented. It seemed so at odds with everything she knew about him; it seemed, most of all, to be utterly unfitting to the misshapen monster she'd glimpsed in his memories.

It made her look up at him, his sharp profile and beaky nose — not so very unlike her own, really — as they walked, late winter sun streaming down on them as if it were already committed to the next, warmer season. She could feel it warming the crown of her head, absorbed by the black of her hair.

"I almost forgot it was nearly my birthday," she ventured, for something to say, "It seems all I've been thinking about lately is —" how you got that Mark; how I got my Mark, "Revisions. For the N.E.W.T.s."

For a moment, she thought he would simply ignore her, but then, at last he glanced at her; first down, and then, as he registered that she was no so far below him anymore, over. Her upward growth finally seemed to have halted, but she was still only a few inches shorter than him, by now.

"I remember taking you to Hogsmeade for your birthday before; I suppose it was a long ago now, but it doesn't really seem like it, until I look at you and realise you're not eight years old any longer."

She smiled, despite herself. "I remember. That's when we got Yellow."

"Well, it was a happy memory, until that part," he muttered, and that warmed her suddenly like no exchange they'd had in the past month could, because finally his bitterness felt close and half-playful, instead of unreachable and half-feral.

"It was a happy memory," she insisted, loudly and forcefully, "All of it. Even the part where I tried to trick you into eating a... an earwax bean, or something, and you outsmarted me."

"It was a vomit-flavoured bean," he told her, almost automatically, because he recalled every second of that day, every play of the light on her shadowed face, every tricky little smile he had managed to coax, every word they had exchanged, tiny little gifts as though it had been his birthday, too.

"Outsmarting me again," she muttered, good-naturedly; he glanced over at her face again, took in the long nose and the dark eyes that were his, and the sharp cheekbones and narrow chin that were not. She was blossoming into a fairly pretty girl, despite the nose, but he couldn't tell her that, because it was her mother's beauty she was playing at, and he knew she'd never want to hear that, no more than she liked being told she had inherited her mother's dark power, or her penchant for runic magic.

"You have no idea," he retorted, without malice; he set his sights ahead on the line of shops in the distance, his eyes easily picking out the shape of the bookstore.

It was dangerous, to think of Bellatrix's beauty; it brought him too close to a time dark enough to swallow him whole, if he let it. Sometimes it still threatened to, until he looked at their daughter, saw the prominent ridge of her nose and the fierce, unbreakable look in her eyes that reminded him that Bella had unknowingly given him so much more than she had taken from him.

"One day, it will be me," she said, and for a second he was so lost in thought that he had no idea what she was talking about. "One day, I'll outsmart you."

I have no doubt of that, he thought, suppressing a shiver as he recalled the vastness, the intensity of her power, as he'd felt it, slinking into his mind during their last lesson; even without her wand, she threatened to see more than he intended to let her. He dangled the vision of the wolf, hoping she'd latch onto it, but always she was so close to seeing the rest of it the things he wanted to hide forever.

"And then," Calista continued, "You will eat a vomit-flavoured bean, or an earwax-flavoured one, and I'll never let you forget that you fell for it."

He looked at her again, and then back — again, and finally — to the bookstore, which was only paces away, now.

"Go on in," he told her, coming to a halt himself, but gesturing her forward, "The book should be held for you inside; it's already paid for, and he — they'll know who it's for. I'll come back in three hours, to bring you back."

He registered the look of surprise, of confusion. She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask why she should need three hours to pick up a book, but he shook his head and turned away, before she could.

That was the thing about forever; despite the way it sounded, it didn't last. No one was friends forever, no matter how often they promised; no word or memory could hide in the shadows forever, no matter how much better off everyone would be, if it could; and, perhaps most devastatingly of all, no child would remain a child forever, no matter how desperately he might wish she would.

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

Calista watched her father go, noting the long shadow he cast as he went, even though she sun was nearly at its apex, and the shadows should have been short and deep; but it wasn't only him, it was her, too: perhaps it wasn't as late in the morning as she'd thought; perhaps the light had a ways to go, yet.

She turned, slightly troubled, and pushed open the wooden door to the shop, hearing the scrape and jingle of the affixed bells overhead as she entered, and then, all at once, she felt herself light up, despite all of the reasons she had not to.

"Gerald!" she managed, and it was true, he was here, in beige trousers and a light blue buttoned shirt, and a disarmingly sweet grin. He was cradling two books in his arm, but she hardly noticed that as she made to throw her arms around his neck; nearly too late, she pulled herself back, before she could cause him to flinch with the unexpected motion.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "I shouldn't — that was too quick, wasn't it?"

He knew what she meant; there was no way that he wouldn't; but he shook his head, and reached for her, taking up one of her hands with his free one, "No, it's all right," he said, quietly, "It doesn't really happen with you, anymore; it hasn't for awhile."

He lifted her hand to his mouth, and she could feel herself start to blush — it's the xarbuckles, she thought, almost wildly, and then his lips were grazing her knuckles, soft and warm, and it was hard to find room for thought at all.

"Mea dulcis noctua," she murmured, before she could quite stop herself; she made a mental note to ask Luna if these supposed xarbuckles also caused their host to say incredibly embarrassing things without thinking first, "Te disidero, etiam." I miss, you, too.

Gerald grinned, and Luna hadn't been wrong; his cheeks were turning pink, too. He released her hand, to show her the two books he cradled. "This one is from your Dad," he told her, showing her the top title, a thick volume of advanced Potions, "And this one is from me."

The title was written in a runic script, and some of the forms were vaguely familiar, similar to latin forms she knew well, while some were entirely unfamiliar. She took it from him, and turned it over in her hands, running her fingers over the embossed runes and studying them for a moment.

"They're French runes, aren't they?" she guessed, at last, and Gerald nodded, pleased.

"It's a collection of old runic writings, collected from ancient ruins and the like — they're mostly quite obscure," he admitted, still holding onto the other volume, the heavier Potions book, "Especially now that they've all been translated into other, more widely-used runic languages…" and then, his grin was back, though Calista noted it had gone a bit sly, "That's how I imagine you'll have to do your translation, you know; cross-referencing the ones from the book."

"My translation?" she echoed, and Gerald's grin widened, as he reached over, fingering the edge of the book's jacket.

"May I?" he asked, and she nodded. He flipped the front cover open, revealing a full page of writing, in the same fluid, curvy runic language that decorated the book's cover, only this page had been scribed in ink and undoubtedly in his own hand.

She recognised the first two runes: Bella, and Colibri, for beauty, and hummingbird. She'd seen them in his letters often enough.

"It's… a bit of a birthday message for you," he said, watching her carefully. "I hope you like it, once you decode it."

She skimmed the shapes; most of them were only vaguely recognisable to her at best, but the few that she could immediately decipher made her cheeks burn once more.

"You… could have just written this in Latin runes," she murmured, for something to say, "Or even in plain French — I'm starting to understand that."

"I could have," Gerald agreed, gently closing the cover and taking the book from her arms, "But I don't think that would have been nearly as much fun, for either one of us."

"What are you going to do for fun once I understand all of these runes, too?" she teased, and Gerald's grin widened.

"Well," he posed, "Do you understand Irish Gaelic?"

"Not really; I know most of the runes, though."

"I'm sure I can think of some you don't know," he teased, "I'm in a very good position now to discover them, you know… After all, I have to make sure that I can keep your interest, and I can't think of anything better than researching runes to do that."

It was Calista's turn, now; she smirked. "I think I can come up with something better."

She took a step towards him, so that they were very close, and she laid her hand on his free arm, the one that wasn't encumbered with books; it was strange, when she was only reading his letters and imagining his presence, it was possible to imagine distance, to fear that he might retreat from her, as he had taken to doing in her nightmares; but here, standing next to him and feeling the warmth of his skin, she thought the light of what she felt could drive away nearly any shadow, and it all seemed silly.

Perhaps that was what made her so bold, what drove her inhibitions and the twisting forms of her nightmares aside; or perhaps it was just the sweet, earnest look in his eyes and the heat of a blush that she could still feel in her own cheeks that made her want to return the favour.

She leaned in, and placed her mouth near his ear. She suddenly wanted to run it along his jaw, to end up at his chin and then his mouth, and she wanted to find the buttons of his collared shirt with her fingers, one by one — but they were in a bookstore, after all, so she settled for pressing a soft, quick kiss at his earlobe, and then she let the xarbuckles, or her hair-twirling ghost, or whatever it was that bubbled inside her when they were together, have their way.

She whispered, in his ear, as he'd written that he wanted to do to her: "Inquisitio de interpretationis de infrenaverunt studium me excitat," she agreed, Investigating rune translations does excite me to study, "Sed volo studere ore tuo, etiam." But I want to study your mouth, too.

Gerald's answering blush was well worth the way her own intensified. He swallowed, and shifted the books in his arms slightly, again. "Je…" he started, and then: "J'aimerais pratiquer cette leçon tout en étant entouré de livres, mais peut-être devrions-nous sortir." While I would enjoy practising this lesson while surrounded by books, perhaps we should go outside.

"Well," Calista said, while nodding her agreement, "We will still have two books, anyway." She reached for them, but Gerald shook his head. He seemed relieved for the excuse to readjust the volumes in his arms, and gesture towards the exit of the shop.

"I'll carry these," Gerald said, hastily, "What sort of boyfriend would I be if I made you carry your own books? That's sort of — er, the quintessential benefit to having one, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Calista teased, stepping forward quickly, determined to reach the door before he did. She pulled it open, prompting the brief chorus of bells again, and held it wide enough for him to step through ahead of her with the books. "I always thought it was to have someone to owl me extra homework."

"You're holding the doors for me, now?" Gerald mused, as he stepped out into the sunlight and she followed him, "Perhaps I am rubbish at this boyfriend thing, after all."

"Yes, well," Calista said, and she reached for his free hand, twining her fingers through his. "You're not just a boyfriend, remember? You're my boyfriend…"

"I could never forget that, mon colibri," he murmured, sincerely, squeezing her hand.

"Part of being my boyfriend is letting me do some of the work," she reminded him, "Like with the Chamber research… and, yes, holding the door when your arms are full."

"I suppose both of those things do turn out better when both of us contribute," Gerald agreed, "Our notes were superb, and so was your potion. And I suppose I wouldn't very much like having the woodgrain from bookstore's door imprinted on my nose."

She laughed, feeling the warmth of the almost-spring sun and a hundred other things, but mostly just of Gerald. The day was perfect, so far, and it had only just begun — and she knew that what she was about to do would darken it, but she had to…

"There's something else you could let me help with," she started, and Gerald frowned almost immediately, pulsing his fingers around her hand again.

"Please don't start," he said, sounding strained already. "I really just want to enjoy a nice day with you."

She glanced at him; his expression had tightened already, mouth drawing down. She was making him anxious, but more than that — he wasn't going to listen, whatever she said. She'd have to try again, some other time and some other day.

"All right," she said quietly, "I won't — I won't make you talk about that."

He relaxed, slightly, and she felt his thumb stroking the palm of her hand. "Thank you, Calista. For… for caring, but also — for letting it go."

For now, she thought, but she knew he didn't want to hear that either, so she pushed the thought aside, along with so many others. Still, she couldn't help but imagine, for a second, what it would be like to help him, to free him from the grasp of figure that she'd seen him cower from, in her dreams that undoubtedly echoed his, and she felt a brief, imaginary burst of purpose, of light, somewhere in her gut. She had to find a way to make him agree with her plan, even if it obviously wasn't going to be today.

"I… I care about you very much," she said, and the words were very close to the ones she probably should have said instead, "I hope you realise that." And I hope you realise that I'm every bit as stubborn as I've been accused of being, and a bit more.

"I know you do," he said, and then, as if he'd heard her unspoken words, he added, hesitantly: "And I… I know you are… very gifted, Calista. I know you're capable of what you want to do, I just… can't put you at risk, because I lo — I care about you very much, too."

"Well, it's not really you putting me at risk if it's my idea. You didn't ask; I'm offering." She couldn't help but slip that in, but then his jaw set again, and his voice was thin and strained once more.

"Calista, please don't…"

"Fine, nevermind," she suppressed a scowl, but didn't quite keep it out of her voice.

"Please," Gerald said again, and his voice was softer now, "I really just want to have a nice day with you, today. It's been… I haven't been sleeping well…"

She squeezed his hand this time, feeling a twinge of guilt for pushing the subject, again; still, she knew she'd eventually bring it up again, even if it couldn't be today. She had to.

"I haven't, either," she admitted; and then she could feel his eyes on her, assessing and undoubtedly worrying.

"It's fine, though," she said, knowing she could manage to be convincing when she had to, even to him, "I'm fine; and unless there are things you want to tell me about, I think you've got the right idea, about today — maybe we should just try to have a nice day. I think both of us could use it."

"Talking to you about things probably is what I need to do," Gerald said, "But I've also got this mad idea — and I think perhaps it's worth pursuing — that maybe we don't need to talk, maybe if I could just hold you, and kiss you, and —" she glanced over to see the blush was back in his cheeks, " — smell your hair, maybe that would work just as well."

She noticed now, that they were leaving the edge of town, that he was leading her down the familiar path to the train platform at the edge of the village, and the small copse of woods beyond; she felt her heart pick up speed, in anticipation.

"I don't think it's going to work as well as talking," Calista said, "But I'm also willing to give it a try; in the spirit of experimentation, you know, if nothing else."

They found their spot, in the small grassy clearing, and Gerald conjured a blanket that he spread on the ground, setting her books at opposite corners to keep it from blowing away; the other corners still rippled a little, in the breeze, but it seemed secure enough, and the books were protected from the ground.

It only took a couple of seconds after that for their mouths and hands to find each other; for his arm to come around her waist, the fingers of his other hand to find her hair, the edge of her ear, the summit of her cheekbone; and for her hands to find the stiff edge of his collar, fingering the top button while offering kisses that ranged from sweet and shy to quite hungry.

She slipped the first button loose, and then a second — and then his mouth was leaving hers, and going everywhere his fingertips had just been, along her ear and her cheek, and then the side of her neck, and he was murmuring things in French that would have made her blush even if she couldn't understand them — but by now, she could, and that made them even sweeter — and then she felt bolder than she ever had, before.

She ran her fingers along his jaw — she had to pause when he turned his head, briefly, to kiss them on her way by — and down the side of his neck, and along the edge of his collar — and then, while he pressed yet another kiss into the hollow underneath the corner of her jaw, she slid her fingers down, tracing his collarbone as she'd done once before; she felt the tickle of his breath on her neck as he inhaled sharply and let it out heavily, when her fingers found the hollow at the centre; she could feel his pulse underneath, quick and sure.

"Mon colibri," he murmured, "mon cœur," and then his mouth was directly on hers again, and she was quite certain suddenly that, even though it was a few days early , this was the best birthday she'd ever had; the fingers of one of her hands worked the third button on his shirt, and with the other hand, she slid her fingers lower, down the plane of the bone at the center of his chest that she'd just partially revealed — his skin felt so warm, and softer than she expected; then there was a strange texture, some small patch of rough, bubbled something that her fingertips slid over. He pulled his lips away from hers and sucked in another breath. He looked like he might stop, and pull away, and she couldn't bear that, right then.

Her fingers passed the spot and kept exploring, and she went for his mouth with hers, pulling him into another kiss; for a fraction of a moment, he seemed convinced, tugging her closer by the arm at her waist, but then her questing fingers came upon another rough spot, and suddenly he was jerking away, hands at her wrists, pulling her hands gently off of him.

"Stop," he told her, but she already had, they were already standing half a pace apart now, and she was feeling suddenly cold and embarrassed, though she didn't know precisely why. "That's — I don't —" he seemed flustered, and when he struggled to refasten the buttons of his shirt, and she leaned forward to offer assistance, he flinched away from her, for the first time in a very long time.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, even though she wasn't certain precisely what she was apologising for, "Let me — let me help, I didn't mean…"

She didn't know what she didn't mean, but it was enough, evidently; he cautiously allowed her to help, remained in place when she stepped closer and deftly refastened the buttons.

"Gerald, what's wrong?" she asked, because something suddenly and undoubtedly was, and she didn't think it was — as she'd always supposed before, when he suddenly pulled away in situations like this — because she had gone too far, because a moment ago, he'd been kissing her with a fervor that still left her feeling a little bit dizzy.

He must have seen some of her confusion, and some of her hurt, in her face, because he lifted her hand away from his collar — now that all of the buttons had been safely closed again — and planted a kiss on her palm, and then he pulled her close again, one arm coming around her back, and the other reaching for her shoulder.

"Give me a minute," he said, and she nodded, hair brushing against his neck; she heard him inhale a few more times, steadying himself, and then he looked at her, very seriously, mouth drawn into a tight little frown.

"Gerald?" She didn't know what else to say: what's wrong, or I'm sorry, but she'd already tried both of those and she still didn't even know precisely what it was she was supposed to be sorry about.

"I —" he swallowed, and then his neck came forward at a peculiar angle; one she'd seen before. She realised, with a sudden jolt, when she'd seen his face precisely like this before: it was when she'd asked him why he'd recommended the Sparkman book, and he'd first confessed to her that he, too, had suffered abuse. "I know you're eventually going to — but I'm not — I wasn't…"

He shook his head, and started over. "Scars," he said, tightly, "You asked me once, if I had them, and I told you I do…"

Calista struggled for words, bewildered; this was backwards, surreal; he wasn't the one that was supposed to be worried like this, it was her who had the shameful scars, the ones that were sure to drive him away…

"I have them, too," she breathed out, the shallowest, softest whisper; as soon as she said it, she regretted it, but after all, she had already admitted that much, over the summer, back in her father's kitchen at Spinner's End.

Still, it was too much; she was the one taking a step back, now, intent on extricating himself from his grasp; but even though he did let the arm at her waist fall, he slightly tightened his grip on her shoulder, letting her put space between them, but not quite letting her separate them without a greater, more deliberate effort.

"Calista," he said, and his voice came out soft, almost pleading: "Please don't, right now; don't push me away."

Every instinct in her was screaming to do just that, and he must have been able to see it.

"Mon colibri, s'i'l te plait, reste avec moi." Please, stay with me.

Her heart was racing, but — slowly, when he spoke, she felt it flutter to a slightly calmer rhythm, as if she really were a wild hummingbird, and he was drawing her into his hand.

"Mea dulcis noctua," she managed to stammer, "M-Manebo, sed ego potest non loqui de hoc." I will stay, but I cannot talk about this.

"D'accord," Gerald said quickly, and she thought he looked a little relieved, himself. "Nous n'en parlerons pas maintenant."

"That — that means we don't have to, right?"

He nodded. "Yes, that's what that means."

She relaxed; tamed, she took a half-step closer again, and touched his cheek with her hand.

"Je suis désolé," she said, I'm sorry, because she felt like she was supposed to.

"Non, mon cœur," Gerald murmured, lifting her hand away from his cheek, again to kiss her fingers; he took a breath, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, his expression was calmer, though his eyes were still solemn. And then: "I haven't asked; but you will sign a copy of your article for me, when the issue comes out, yes?"

She chuckled, relieved at the sudden change in topic. She'd written to him when she'd found out, and she'd told him about St. Mungo's too, though she hadn't said anything about her Uncle Lucius' letter; as far as he knew, she was still waiting for the Ministry's internship matches before she considered her prospects. As far as he knew, she actually still had prospects, besides the dull Potions job, and the even duller secretarial one that her uncle was offering.

"Only if I can write something corny and embarrassing on it," she said, forcing a teasing note to hide her fears, "To get you back, of course, for all of the things you write to me…"

"Oh, corny's perfect," Gerald said, "As I'm hoping to frame it, and hang it up on the wall by my desk at work; I want everyone in the office to know that I'm involved with a famous runes researcher —"

She laughed, and some of the fear fell away; a beam of sunlight was filtering through the canopy of budding leaves overhead, and she could feel it warm on her hair again, "Yes, famous with all twelve people that actually read the Experimental Charms Research Journal…"

"And anyway, you couldn't possibly embarrass me by being corny," Gerald said, and then his mouth stretched, enticingly, "Though I do certainly encourage you to try."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I sincerely hope you do," Gerald said, and then: "Really, though, it is very impressive. Chadwick and Mira think so, too; they're both looking forward to reading it."

That reminded her of something. "Evidently, my aunt and uncle find Chadwick impressive. I forgot to tell you, but they wanted me to suggest to you that we all meet, so they can become better acquainted with your family."

Gerald lifted a brow; she thought he looked slightly nervous. "Really? I thought — I got the impression they didn't particularly care for me."

"Well, evidently they do care for Chadwick being high up in the Office of Misinformation or whatever they heard he was, now."

"He's been in that office for ages," Gerald said, "But they did recently promote him, it's true — he's the Assistant Minister for Misinformation, now — he assures me that it just means they pay him slightly more to do the same thing he's been doing all along."

"Well, it was enough to impress them, I guess," Calista said, sniffing slightly on the word.

"Tell them he's got a N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies," he muttered, "That's how he qualified for the position."

Calista frowned, and then: "I suppose that makes sense. In order to think of a valid excuse for magic, you'd have to know what a valid excuse for magic was."

"That's the idea," Gerald agreed.

"Like — eclectric, right? That's — that's sort of magic for Muggles, isn't it? Amelia said that's how her stove works…"

Gerald looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "Electricity, I think you mean," he said, gently, "That's how things at my house work, too, you know. I could… I could show you the circuit box if you want, sometime. I don't know exactly how it all functions, but I think I could give you the basic idea."

"Oh, excellent," Calista teased, "I've always wanted a boy to — to show me how his cricket box works."

Gerald did laugh now, emitting what would have been a pretty unattractive snort, if Calista had still been capable of finding anything about him unattractive, and pressing his mouth together as his shoulders vibrated.

"Cricket box," he managed, after a few minutes, "Please tell me that was deliberate…"

"Of course it was," she said hurriedly, even though it wasn't, and she didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"Have you… have you gotten over your distrust for pens yet, then?" he teased, and she scowled.

"No. Where does the ink come from?"

"It's inside," he said, gently, and damn it, he still looked like he was laughing, "They really are more efficient, you know; though I'll admit, it doesn't seem nearly as romantic to write a love letter with one as with a big, feathery quill."

She felt herself blushing, again, despite everything. "A… a love letter, hm?"

He smiled, and pointed with the toe of his shoe towards the book with the French runes on the cover. "What do you suppose is inside the cover of that book?"

She blinked, and she felt something pulling at her lungs — was it fear, or was it anticipation?

"Did you… did you write…?"

"I wrote what I needed to," he said, "If… if you're not ready to read it, then I suppose you can set it aside, until you are."

"You said you wouldn't…" she started; but then, that wasn't the only reason her heart was racing now, was it? Part of her was almost hoping he would, even though… no, she didn't want him to, after all, not if he'd only take it back later…

"I didn't," he said quietly, "I didn't put those three words together in that exact order; but I think I've managed to say the same thing, a few other ways. At least, I tried to."

She frowned, and followed his gaze down to the book; she wanted to step away from it, in case it opened its covers like jaws, and went to take a bite… but she also wanted to scoop it up, to pore through all the translations she could find, to devour whatever sweet message he'd hidden within.

"Calista, why don't you want me to say it?" he asked her, again, "What are you so afraid will change my mind?"

She looked up at him, sharply. "You said we didn't have to talk about that today," she reminded him; and then she realised that by admitting that, she'd already gone much further than she meant to…

That's not true, a voice said, in the back of her mind; she remembered sitting across her father's kitchen table from him, that day at the end of the summer, and she remembered intending to tell him then… but she'd let the fear quiet her for too many seconds, and then the chance had passed, and every minute that had gone by in the meantime was only making it more and more difficult.

His face was lit, suddenly, with understanding, and she didn't know if that made her feel hopeful or doomed.

"I told you," Gerald said, squeezing her shoulder, "There's nothing she could have done to you that would ever make me think any less of you."

"Let me help you," she said, struck by a sudden wild and terrifying urge, "Let me help you, with legilimency, and then I'll tell you what she did—"

His face closed off, and she knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say.

"That's not fair, Calista," he said, and he sounded suddenly very tired, "You know it's isn't."

"It actually is," she said, in a small voice; but truthfully, the larger part of her was relieved that he had said no. "It's — trading what you're afraid of happening for what I'm afraid of happening."

"It's not the same," he said, letting go of her and bending down to pick up the books, carefully. "And it's not fair."

"It is," she insisted, "It's exactly the same, really; you say that you wouldn't change what you think of me, if I told you, but I'm nearly positive you will. I say I wouldn't get hurt if you let me help you, but you're nearly positive I will."

"Calista…"

"We're both betting on whether or not I'd get hurt," she said, heart still racing, "We're just — taking opposite sides."

"If that's really the way you see it," Gerald started, straightening, her books balanced in his arm, and she felt her lungs tighten and her heart pound even harder; was he going to give in? Was this bargain worth it, or not…? "Then I don't want you to tell me."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm not willing to wager on any situation where the outcome might be you getting hurt," he said, waving his wand to vanish the blanket by their feet, the one the books had rested on but they hadn't bothered to. "Come on, your father will be looking for you, soon."

They went back the way they'd come, and soon enough they were nearing the centre of town, and her father was in sight, standing a short distance in front of the bookstore where he'd left her, earlier that day.

"Gerald," she started again, as they drew close, "My father even said I could help you."

"I know what he said," Gerald said, "And he doesn't understand the danger; if he did…" his mouth pressed into a line. "Remember last year, when he wanted to pull you off of your Prefect patrols, and you and I both thought he was being unreasonable?"

"Yes; he was being unreasonable, and so are you, now."

"There was a basilisk in the castle," he pointed out, "He knew it, and we didn't; my father is a predatory snake, too, and this time, I know it, and the two of you don't. It's my turn."

"What — to pull me off my patrols?" she snarked.

"No," Gerald corrected, "To protect you. Even if that means being seen as unreasonable."

"Speak of the devil," Calista muttered, as they drew level with her father, and she saw that he was still wearing the same grim scowl he'd had in place for weeks.

"Here," Gerald said, holding the books out to her, carefully. When she took them, he looked up at her father.

"Thank you for arranging this, sir," he said, and Calista blinked. Wait; her father had arranged this, rather than just grudgingly agreeing to it?

Her father jerked his head forward in a brief nod. "I expect we'll see you at the Easter break, as well?" he said, "I'm planning on bringing Calista home, to Cokeworth."

"You are?" Calista brightened, slightly; that was good news in and of itself; seeing Gerald there, even if he was currently being unreasonable made it doubly so, and if Severus approved of her seeing Gerald there, it was triply so…

"I'd like to visit, sir," Gerald said, "I do have, though — erm, something I need to do — I mentioned, I think, in my letter… it was moved, to a few days after Easter."

"Ah," Severus said, "I see. Well, I'm certain you and Calista will be in touch."

Calista and her father were several paces down the path before she could find words.

"What the hell was that about?" she challenged, looking across at him; his face was even, impassable. He barely spared her a glance. "You and Gerald are writing now?"

His grimace deepened. "We exchanged one letter," he said, "To arrange the little excursion you've just been on, for your birthday. I'd hardly call that 'writing'."

"What did he tell you, in his letter? The thing that 'got moved'?"

Severus shrugged. "I initially suggested the day after your birthday for this, since you don't have classes on Fridays; he couldn't, because he had some sort of meeting, so we decided on the Saturday prior, instead. Although it sounds now as if that isn't an obstacle after all — and no, don't even ask, you're not getting another day out of school now."

"I wasn't going to ask," she huffed, "What was the meeting about?"

"I have no idea," he said irritably, "I'm not Gerald's secretary. Are you prepared for your lessons, tomorrow?"

Calista grinned; she couldn't help herself.

"What is so funny?" Severus snarled, cutting a glance at her.

"Not funny," Calista said, "It's just — you called him Gerald."

"So? That is the boy's name, is it not?"

Her grin widened. "Yes; it's just, before, you always called him 'that boy', or 'Mr. Boot', and now you're calling him Gerald. That means you don't hate him after all, do you?"

"Of course I don't," he groused, as they came within sight of the castle gates; she could feel, suddenly, the child of their impending presence… but she could feel something else, something like what she usually felt, just before she tried the Patronus charm; something like she'd felt, that last time, when it had almost been successful… she had the crazy idea that she might almost be able to…

"Expecto Patronum!" her father said, and the silver doe charged off, galloping after the wretched cloaked figures, and dispersing them.

"Why is yours a doe?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness; but she'd wondered for a long time… "Was it another form, before you lost it?"

"No," he said, and it was not lost on her that he had sidestepped her first question entirely, "My Patronus has never had a different form. Now go on, and get ready for dinner; I'll see you tomorrow, for your lessons."

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

They were having their lessons in his workshop, again, below his quarters. He was working on a potion, and it made the legilimency particularly difficult, because he wouldn't look up for long enough for her to get a good angle.

"Shouldn't you let me get this completely right without the added difficulty, before we go through all this nonsense?" she asked, irritably, and he bared his teeth.

"It isn't nonsense," he hissed, "I need to finish this dittany infusion now, so it can stew for forty-eight hours before I add it to the potion."

She frowned, trying to get an angle, as he'd straightened up briefly to speak with her. "Recludo…"

Damn it; she'd missed her chance, he was bending over the cauldron again, adding the crushed leaves, and a sprig of fluxweed.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fluxweed, in a forty-eight hour dittany infusion? Not a twelve-hour one, or a twenty-four?"

"That's what I said."

She glanced at the row of jars on the shelf above his cauldron; he always set out the ones he would need, before be began a particular brew.

"Powdered unicorn horn," she mused, "pearl dust — that's one hell of an antidote you're making, isn't — wait — goldenrod? Kneazle claw? Why would you need to make Veritaserum — and where are the forget-me-nots —"

He looked up, sharply, but not at her; he looked, instead, to the very far corner of his workbench, where another jar sat, smooth glass dimly reflecting the glow of the witchfire beneath his cauldron. The flowers didn't look blue, though; she squinted, for a closer look — perhaps they had been aged by some odd process that he was experimenting with —

"What the —" her jaw dropped, "Aconite? That's not — that's not Veritaserum, that's…"

"What is it?" he hissed; his teeth were bared, now, and there was a peculiar, intense gleam in his eyes.

"Shit," she said, and suddenly a hundred things came crashing down around her, like a firestorm.

The acrid scent of the aconite she'd smelled on him, before, in his kitchen; the way he'd invited her to come along to deliver it; the way he'd needled her, all goddamn year, to be careful, the way he'd hinted that there was a monster in the school again...

The long, twisting tunnel; the wretched, misshapen creature at the end of it...

"You are making Wolfsbane Potion," she said, and even though she could hear the disbelief, still, in her tone, her mind was running through all sorts of mental aerobics, catching up with itself.

Her father's expression shifted into a twisted, triumphant sort of grin.

"Yes," he said, "Yes, I am."

There was more to it, now that she was thinking about it, properly; and suddenly the pieces were rushing into place, like they were a runic puzzle she'd just decrypted the key to: there was one person, one new addition to the faculty that he hated enough to try, more than once, to have sacked — one professor whose class he had actually asked her to drop; one professor who seemed to miss one of his classes, oh… around the same days that her lunar charts for Arithmancy were always due, at the full moon…

Suddenly, she knew what he'd been accusing her of, all this time; it wasn't the Owlery he'd seen her going to, at night, it was his office…

"Unreasonable," she managed; it was the first word, after her conversation with Gerald the previous day, that came to her mind. "That's why you've been so unreasonable — you weren't cross with me for going to the Owlery, you were cross — you saw me going to talk to him, didn't you?"

Severus just stared at her; he had that look again, like there was something he wanted to shout at her, but couldn't.

She recalled, suddenly, the criss-cross pattern of scars she'd noticed, once, on her Defence professor's forearm… the ones that she'd thought could only have been left by a Dark creature, and she asked herself how the hell she had managed to be so blindingly stupid for so many months; and then she told her father, in a hollow, horrified voice what she had finally figured out:

"Rem — Professor Lupin is a werewolf, isn't he?"


	17. Chapter 17

"Rem — Professor Lupin is a werewolf, isn't he?"

She hoped, wildly, that her father would deny it. Instead, he straightened, and his mouth slipped into a smirk.

"Well — I see you've figured it out on your own. I suppose there's nothing I can do about that; you are a clever girl, after all, the Headmaster knows that."

Calista blinked. "What — the  _Headmaster_  — and why didn't you  _tell_  me?"

"I was forbidden from doing so."

She hardly heard him. Now that the truth of the matter had caught squarely up to her, she was shaking, suddenly, like a leaf; her knees felt weak. "I've been —" she clutched the edge of his worktable, watching her knuckles turn white, and forced herself to take a breath. "I've been going to his office  _alone_ , I asked him for help with my Patronus, he wrote me a recommendation, he —  _Merlin_ , I asked him to walk me to Hogsmeade once —"

"You did  _what_?" Severus was the one who was white-knuckled now, and white-faced; his hands gripped her elbows suddenly, and she wasn't sure which of them he was attempting to steady.

"Well, obviously I didn't  _know_ ," she retorted; this, at least — getting irritated with him — was good; it pushed the fear aside. There wasn't quite room for both. "Maybe if you'd have  _told_  me —"

"I was forbidden," he said again, plaintively, "The Headmaster —"

She interrupted him again. "The Headmaster  _knows_?"

Severus nodded grimly.

"That's — how can he — that's —" she cast about for a phrase, and borrowed one from Gerald, undoubtedly perfected during his tenure as Head Boy, "That's  _wildly irresponsible!_ "

"Obviously, we're in agreement," Severus growled, through his teeth, "Listen to me, though: you can't tell anyone."

"Are you  _mad_? There's a bloody  _werewolf_  in the castle, and I'm not supposed to  _tell_  anyone?"

"Albus is already going to think I told you," Severus said, darkly, "If you go and do precisely the thing I've been advocating for since that  _beast_  was appointed, he's going to assume I put you up to it."

She had a sudden flash of memory, of Professor Lupin closing his office door practically in her face, having come to the same conclusion about their conversation; that Severus had somehow put her up to it. At the time, she hadn't understood why he would think that. But now…

"I went to ask him something," she said quietly, "Not very long ago — I thought since he knew Sirius Black, he might know whether Gerald's theory about the letter was plausible… he thought you'd sent me to ask. I didn't understand why, at the time."

Severus jaw clipped shut, and then, his grip on her arms tightened slightly. "As if I — as if I would  _ever_  send you to  _that_. It's fitting, of course — I suppose he has no qualms himself against sending children to their certain death on behalf of a personal agenda."

"Ow — " she wriggled, and he immediately loosened his grip. "Your cauldron's boiling," she said, identifying the soft rumbling to her right, and he released her entirely to tend to it, stirring and slightly lowering the heat.

She rubbed her elbow, watching him hunched over the cauldron; and perhaps it was the gentle simmering, or perhaps it was only having a moment to think, but her fear began to ebb slightly — not  _away_ , just lower; a receding tide.

"You're making the potion now," she observed, "Which means it will be ready for the entire week prior to the full moon…"

He jerked a nod, and used a wooden spoon to lift out a clump of the stewing dittany mixture, his nose practically touching it as he inspected it closely.

" _Lumos_ ," she murmured, lifting her wand over his shoulder, and then: "You know, you wouldn't have to get so close if you'd maybe turn on a light once in awhile."

"That hardly suits my persona," he snarked back, and Calista managed a weak smirk.

"Well, it's only  _me_ ; there's no sense in posturing. I know you're only half as creepy as you'd like people to think."

"I'm certain I'm flattered."

"Don't be; I also know you're twice as touchy."

He shot a glare over his shoulder.

"See?" Her smirk faded, and she considered a moment longer. "I assume you've been making the potion  _every_  full moon, then? Enough for the entire week before?"

"I've been making enough to treat every name on the Werewolf Registry, and then some."

"And he's drinking it?"

"Obviously."

She frowned. "Then I suppose there isn't really an  _immediate_  danger, is there?"

He whipped around, plunking the wooden spoon back into the cauldron forcefully enough to create a rain of droplets on the top of his workbench.

"No  _immediate_  danger? Is that how you feel about the dementors, then, too, as long as someone's around with some bloody chocolate?"

She flinched, and he suddenly looked like he'd swallowed a mouthful of aconite, himself.

"That's a pretty awful thing to say to me," she said, quietly. Instead of fading, like most of the things he said in anger and didn't mean, these words seemed to latch onto her gut, sink their fangs in.

"I didn't — I just meant —" if he was searching for an apology, he didn't find it; instead, his eyes flashed, and he spat out, "Stay away from Lupin."

 _Lupin._  She snatched at that, pulling the change in topic around herself like a gauze, wrapping the wound; so what if she'd wrapped the snake in with her? The pressure eased, as she let her mind work, distracting her.

Now that she was over the initial shock of Lupin's condition, now that she was able to consider beyond her instinct of fear at having been alone with a  _werewolf_  without knowing it, she was recalling the context of her visits with him. She didn't know what a werewolf was supposed to seem like, but whatever she'd expected, he didn't fit the part at all.

Perhaps she'd expected ferocity and bloodlust; instead, he'd seemed mild, and by turns kind and wise. She recalled how sharply he had reminded her, in brief flashes, of their tentative alliance a very long time ago, at either end of a very comfortable sofa.

He had looked tired and ill often then, too; she might not have remembered that on her own, but she'd seen it in the recovered memories, over the summer. She couldn't remember what the phases of the moon had been, during his visits to that house, but...

"How long has he been a werewolf?" she asked, quietly.

He bared his teeth. "I don't see how that could possibly matter. Just stay away from it."

" _It?_ " Calista's brows shot up. "I studied werewolves in fifth year, you know, and my understanding is that they're still  _people_  the other three hundred and fifty-odd days of the year —"

Severus' mouth twisted further into a snarl, and his brow dropped menacingly. "That's debatable."

She found herself matching his scowl. "You know what?" she snapped, "It  _does_  matter, unless you'd rather go back to discussing the dementors. That is — as long as you've got some fucking  _chocolate_  hanging around — I might get too upset otherwise —"

"Calista!" he snarled reflexively at her language, but then deflated almost immediately. If he were capable of looking contrite, he might have, then. "I didn't mean — I'm…"

He trailed off.

"Sorry would be a good start," she snarked, and he turned abruptly away, gripping the handle of the wooden spoon again, fingers like a vise around it, as he stirred the contents of the cauldron.

"I'm sorry," he spat, over his shoulder. Calista swallowed. She still didn't feel much better, but she was glad he'd said it, at least, even if she'd had to practically force it out of him.

"How long?" she insisted, again.

"Since before he started at Hogwarts," her father answered; she could practically hear the words dragging in his throat, but he seemed to accept that he owed her that much, now.

Then he  _had_  been afflicted, even back then. He'd been the most fearsome creature in that entire house… and yet, he'd been the only one that she had even begun to trust.

Her father's shoulders hunched over the cauldron, and she recalled another fearsome beast that she'd trusted, despite what the rest of the world might have advised.

"So he was bitten as a child," she mused; her voice was low, and she saw her father's motions slow, as if to ensure he heard her properly. "That must have been utterly horrifying, to deal with..."

Her father sputtered; his head whipped around, but she kept going, raising her voice slightly:

"He's willingly taking Wolfsbane Potion, to prevent harming anyone. And I suppose even before that, he must have controlled it well enough to avoid killing anyone, or he'd be in Azkaban —"

Severus dropped the spoon; it clattered off the edge of the workbench and onto the stone floor. He advanced towards her, eyes narrowing.

" _Shut up_ ," he hissed, and she flinched, a second time; as soon as she did, so did he. He deflated again, and then he scrabbled to scoop up the wooden spoon; hands shaking, he set it down on the surface of the workbench, and just stared at her, eyes hollow.

"You have no idea, Calista… no idea what you've just said…"

She was tempted to turn, to tear up the stairs and leave him, and this strange, twisting conversation behind; she knew he wouldn't dare go after her, not after lashing out at her twice, as he had done — but there was something eerily familiar in his eyes, in that moment, that held her rooted despite herself.

"Maybe I would, if you ever told me  _anything_ ," she said, quietly. She felt something queer in her gut, as if the metaphorical bindings around it were coming loose, and the snake began to slither around again, jaws opening.

"I couldn't —" he started, weakly, and Calista cut in, hastened by the need to rid herself of the wriggling, twisting sensation that was taking over her insides.

"It's not just this, and we both know it," she said. She realised, with a sudden jolt, where she'd seen this particular expression in her father's eyes before, and she realised that was why she couldn't just leave: he was afraid. It was the same terror that had gripped him, in the aftermath of Quirrell's true loyalties being revealed, and when Ginny Weasley had been taken into the chamber, last year.

It was the same terror, too, that she'd witnessed in  _both_ of their eyes in a series of memories that had twinkled and gleamed deceptively in tiny glass vials for too many years; and it struck her, as the snake in her gut forced itself loose and slithered right up, out of ther throat, that it was not the only thing that had lain dormant and unaddressed for far too long.

"You never tell me anything from your life that happened before I knew you," she said, and if anything, the fear in his eyes sharpened, gleaming like the silvery light of memory in those wretched vials, "I still don't know how you lost your Patronus — or gained it back — or why it takes the form of a doe. I don't know how you ended up with — how  _I_ ended up happening, when you were only sixteen — I don't know —"  _how you earned that Mark on your arm;_ the words were tumbling out of her now, but she managed to hold those ones back, because she didn't think she was ready for the answer. She scrambled for new ones, as her father took a step wordlessly back, towards the still-simmering cauldron.

"I don't know what's so awful about pointing out that Professor Lupin's still a person —"

"Not that," her father surprised her, speaking up at last; his voice came out hoarse, as if he'd been silent for months or years instead of only moments, or as if the words were sharpened, scratching his throat on their way out. "It's when you said he wasn't a killer…"

Calista blinked, and her bravado fell away. "I — you're not saying he  _is_  one? But…"

 _How?_ Professor Lupin seemed like one of the  _least_ likely killers she had ever met; was her judgement of character so starkly wrong? Perhaps more terrifying, if he  _was_ a killer, and if the Headmaster still allowed him a place at the school…

She shook her head, quickly; that was a path she couldn't allow her mind to take, at the moment. Severus' scowl slipped back into place.

"No," he said, snatching up the wooden spoon again, and holding it up like a flimsy, narrow shield, "I suppose he's not — a  _successful_ killer, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean,  _successful_?"

"Well, if he was  _successful_ ," her father said, mouth twisting on the word, "You wouldn't very well be able to ask me what I meant by it."

Horror dawned on Calista; she felt like a hole had opened up suddenly, yawing and great, in the stone floor before her, and she was suddenly dizzy. Irrationally, she feared that she might lose her balance and pitch forward.

"Oh, I see you're much quicker on the uptake  _this_  time," her father noted bitterly; his voice sounded odd and far away, and it wasn't until she heard the distant clatter of the wooden spoon hitting the floor again, and felt his grip fierce and sudden at her shoulders that she realised she almost  _had_  pitched forward.

"Calista…?" the bitterness had left his voice, but the fear had not left his face. "I — I'm —" he seemed to be struggling, again, to find an apology, but at the moment, it wasn't what she needed.

"Tell me," she whispered, pleadingly; she wrenched herself from his grip, but clutched at his sleeve a second later, when he retreated to go after the errant spoon again. "Tell me what you mean."

He was quiet for several seconds, and he took a sharp, long breath. "We're both all right," he said, but she had the queer notion that he wasn't talking to her at all. After another breath, and another short silence, he gently extracted his sleeve from her clutching fingers, and bent to retrieve the spoon.

"Dad…?"

He reached for her hand, and then pressed the wooden spoon into her palm.

"Keep stirring the infusion," he said, "And I'll try to explain as much as I can…"

It seemed mad, to work on a  _potion_ during such a taut moment, such an intense conversation; but she supposed the infusion  _did_  still need to be completed, if it was to be ready to add to the Wolfsbane Potion in forty-eight hours, and he was suddenly in less of a fit state than  _she_  was to finish it. She stepped up to the cauldron, wooden spoon in hand, and she felt a funny little emotional jolt in her stomach when she remembered another time very much like this, when she'd been invited to stir, but was too small to reach the cauldron, and he'd had to lift her. Her heart had been racing, then; it was, now, too.

"You know that I had trouble, from Potter, in school," her father said, from somewhere over her shoulder, and it struck her as such an odd thing to open with that she glanced back at him; it was too dark to make out his expression properly, at this distance, because of the very same perpetual darkness the workroom had that she'd teased him about moments, or perhaps a lifetime, ago.

"Lupin was part of his little gang," her father went on, "It was the four of them, usually, though sometimes there were others, too — Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Black — yes,  _that_  Black. They were quite the little band of hellions, but of course they were  _Gryffindors_ , the Headmaster's favourite, and so he did very little to admonish them, and nothing at all to  _stop_  them. I remember thinking, at the time… it was almost as if he found their hijinks  _amusing_ … after all, so many others did."

She could practically  _hear_  the curl of his lip, behind her, and she  _could_  hear the sudden soft, measured paces he was taking, back and forth, across the dungeon floor. The herby, medicinal smell of the cauldron's contents wafted up to her, and she realised that  _she_ , at least, was feeling a hundred times more calm, more centered than she had moments ago; her racing heart had slowed. Perhaps stirring the potion hadn't been a terrible idea, after all.

"It all started on the train, on the way to my very first day at Hogwarts, Potter and his little gang's ongoing torment — and if they'd had their way, I think it wouldn't have ended until I was dead; and perhaps that's what Black and Lupin are still after —'

Calista froze; small bubbles began to drift up from the bottom of the cauldron as her spoon stilled.

"But," her father went on, "I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself… it started, I think, very similarly to the way your rivalry with Miss Avril began… name calling, minor hexes, and I could hold my own even though there  _were_  four of them, and — usually — only one of me. It didn't take long for things to…  _escalate_. Minor hexes became powerful curses, the name calling turned to baiting, turning the other students against me, turning L — my friend — my  _friends_  against me…"

"That's what Olivia did to me, at first," Calista managed, hurrying to stir the cauldron again as the frenzy of bubbles intensified; she lowered the heat slightly. "There's still… you know, probably almost half of Slytherin still hates me, because of her…"

"Well," she could hear an odd smirk in her father's voice, but she didn't turn again, knowing she'd never make out his face clearly in the near-dark, and sensing, somehow, that the fact of that made this conversation easier for him to have, "Half of Slytherin  _did_  hate me, for not doing a good enough job standing up for myself — I knew plenty of dueling spells, but actually  _using_  them, one on four, seemed suicidal… and then, it got to the point where I didn't have a choice, it was defend myself as well as I could or end up a bloodied mess…"

Calista sucked in a breath; she could see her arm shaking, and she tightened her grip on the wooden spoon, and concentrated on stirring the mixture rhythmically, calming the intermittent bubbling, and herself besides.

"I learned more spells, and I even invented a few. The one you hate so much,  _Sectumsempra,_  that was one of mine, but —"

"Wait," Calista interrupted, half-turning to peer into the shadows behind her, " _You_ invented that spell?"

He paused his pacing, and took a half-step in her direction, "Yes, I did," he said, with a grim sort of pride, "And I invented the counter-curse, too; haven't you noticed you've never come across either of them in any book?"

"I… I suppose I just thought, because the curse is Dark…"

"Not half as Dark as many of the spells described in books I've lent you before… and the counter-curse certainly isn't." His mouth shifted into a sad sort of half-smile. "I really did hope you'd guessed that they were my work; I did tell you that I based  _my_  spells in Latin, too…"

Calista swallowed. "That's — but — you're telling me you invented all of these spells — including one of the most powerful healing spells in existence, and just… decided to teach Potions?"

Her father's expression shifted into a smirk. "More or less, I suppose. Levicorpus and the counter-curse are mine, too, and Langlock and Muffliato —"

Calista's eyebrows practically hit her hairline. " _Seriously_? You  _invented_  all of those spells?"

"Oh, yes; and perhaps a half dozen more. I suppose after a time, I became quite impressed with myself, and it gave me enough popularity with the members of my own House that they finally accepted me, despite the fact that I was openly calling myself a Half-Blood, then; The Half-Blood Prince, in fact, after my mother's maiden name — I thought it was clever…"

Despite everything, Calista felt a tiny smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, too. "I suppose it was," she admitted; then, the rising sound of bubbling liquid reminded her to turn back to the cauldron, and she missed whatever his expression did in response.

"And I suppose you despise me now," he surprised her by saying, cautiously, into the air between them, "Just as you evidently despise the spell I created…?"

It struck her that he sounded deceptively off-hand.  _Is that how you earned the Mark?_ Her mind whispered, and she didn't trust herself to turn around; she held her shoulders steady, and continued to stir the infusion. "Did you use it on anyone?"

"Of course I did," he said, darkness creeping into his tone, and she made herself keep stirring, "But I used the counter-curse  _precisely_ three times as often…"

So he hadn't done any lasting damage with the spell, then; he'd seen the counter-curse all the way through each time he'd used it. Still… she suppressed a shiver, or most of one; she thought her shoulders might have jerked a slight betrayal, and she found herself hoping he hadn't caught it.

"Did you teach the spell to anyone else?" At least she'd never seen her mother use it; she was nearly positive she'd have run from the room blindly upon learning its origin if she had.

"Only to one person," he said quietly, "And she — ah, I fear she's not particularly keen on it."

It was obvious what he was saying; still, she had to be absolutely certain. She paused her stirring, and turned her head slightly, so she could see his silhouette.

"Me?"

He nodded; she could see his profile shifting up and down in the dim light, black hair falling across his eyes.

" _She_  created spells, too," Calista said, knuckles tightening around the spoon's grip, painfully aware of how well she knew this particular truth; didn't she bear its proof on her very skin? "But she… she never bothered with any counter-curses; not even once."

She returned to her slow, rhythmic stirring, and then realised, in the stretch of ensuring silence, that she'd forgotten to answer his question.

"Of course I don't despise you."

His pacing resumed again, as if he'd been waiting for her to say that.

"She said that, too, for a time," her father said, somewhere behind her; there was something wistful in his tone, and she something else, something slow and heavy and creeping that she couldn't quite name. "And then — one day, she did."

Calista paused, and threw another look over her shoulder; for a second, wildly, she thought he was talking about her mother — but one glance at his face, even half-shadowed, told her it couldn't be; whoever he was talking about, it was someone he cared for; enough, in fact, that thinking of her now had the power to wound him.

"Who?" she asked quietly, and as several seconds passed in silence, she was certain he wouldn't answer; and then:

" _Expecto Patronum_."

The room was dazzlingly bright, suddenly; Calista shielded her eyes with her free hand, but Severus gazed up at the silver doe, black eyes wide and shining, as if he hardly noticed the fierce light, or as if it didn't bother him in the slightest.

She peered through her fingers, and realised she  _could_  name the other ghost pulling at the corners of his mouth, after all: grief.

She felt her own heart sink, as the beautiful silver creature faded away, and the darkness returned in its stead.

"Who was —" Calista started, but her father's voice was hard and razor-thin when it cut through hers:

"The infusion's bubbling over."

Hurriedly, Calista returned to it, calming the bubbling once more; she sniffed, and peered into the cauldron. She thought it was nearly ready to be left steeping for the forty-eight hours, but she also wanted to hear the rest of his story; she wanted the answers, after all this time.

"Sometime in my fifth year, I realised they would stop at nothing short of my death," her father said suddenly, his voice rising as if the last five or ten minutes hadn't happened, "And then — in my sixth year, I guess they got tired of waiting for that."

His pacing started again; Calista lowered the heat once more, practically to nothing, but kept up the pretense of stirring.

"Black cornered me in the library one day — I don't know quite how they were always able to find me alone — and he told me they'd leave me alone for good, if I could just prove that I had what it took to find their secret hiding spot; I knew where it was, of course — I'd seen them, skulking around by that blasted tree, the Whomping Willow — but I had no idea how to get by it without getting mauled. Black told me how to get past it, and dared me to figure out the rest of it —"

"There's a way past it?"

"Not anymore, there isn't," he said, quickly and grimly, "And if there  _were_ , I'd still tell you there wasn't — you're to stay far away from that tree, Calista."

"Gee, the violently swinging branches hadn't already clued me in to that; so you got through, to their hiding spot?"

"Oh, yes; and when I  _did_ , and I was suddenly face-to-face with a fully transformed werewolf, I realised precisely what Black had meant, when he said they'd leave me alone for good; after all, it's hard to harass a corpse."

"Merlin's blood," Calista froze; her hands were shaking again, but the heat on the potion was low enough now that it didn't immediately start bubbling when she slowed her stirring, "You — you had to fight a  _werewolf_  —"

"No; and it's a good thing, because it wasn't a fight I'd have won — I didn't come up with  _Sectumsempra_  until  _after_  I ran into Lupin in his lair, until  _after_  I'd almost lost my life and decided I didn't want to end up so helpless the next time; no, I didn't fight him. At the last minute, Potter came after me; I suppose he realised even  _he_  wouldn't get away with  _actual_  murder… he dragged me back, but I'd already seen…"

Calista shivered. Suddenly, her father was at her shoulder, inspecting the potion.

"Evidently, though," he said, and he reached over, gently unwinding her clenched fingers from the spoon's handle, and plucking it from her hand, giving the potion an experimental stir himself, "Potter was correct in thinking he could get away with  _attempted_ murder; the four of them got off, and I was sworn to secrecy about what I'd seen."

"That's horrible," Calista said quietly; suddenly, she was incredibly grateful for his presence, by her side, for the steadiness of his hands as he lifted a spoonful of the infusion out, inspecting it carefully.

"It's perfect."

Calista blinked. "What?"

"The infusion." Severus said, and he was suddenly all business-like, as he laid the spoon on the counter, and waved his wand, summoning a vented lid for the cauldron. "It's ready to stew."

"Oh." Calista frowned, and looked at him; she still had a hundred more questions, but while some of them burned even more urgently, there were some, now, that she didn't want to ask.

"Promise me," her father said, suddenly, just as she'd opened her mouth to ask, again, about the doe Patronus, "Stay away from them both — from the tree, and from Lupin."

"I'll do my best."

He nodded, settling the lid on the cauldron with a heavy clunk that immediately silenced the mild simmer within.

"Good," he said, just as heavily as the lid had dropped, "Now… I think your lessons are over, for today."

 _I think you should go_ , was what he really said.

"All right," she said, casting a look at the lidded cauldron; looking at it, she was struck suddenly with how very similar the two of them really were, sometimes: which meant she knew, or thought she did, what she ought to do now.

Before she had a chance to change her mind, Calista stepped hurriedly towards her father, and wrapped her arms about him in a quick, fierce hug.

"I'm going to give you space," she said quietly, somewhere near his shoulder, "But first, I'm reminding you that I love you, and that — that I'm just down the corridor, if you do decide you want to talk some more."

His arms came around her, even more briefly, but just as fiercely; and then, when they separated, he was looking at her with an expression of mingled bewilderment and surprise; there was something else, too, she thought: bemused affection.

"Calista, I don't think I need —" he started, but Calista frowned, and interrupted him.

"Maybe you don't," she said softly, and even though she no longer felt the slithering of the snake, she thought she could still feel the pain of its bite, the sting of something slippery and difficult to name. "But I think… maybe I do — I need to know that this isn't all one-sided; I need…"

She took a breath. For some reason, inexplicably, her mind was suddenly flooded with thoughts of Gerald, with his problem and his refusal to let her help him, and she could hear the echo of advice she couldn't find a way to follow.  _Purpose_ … how was anyone supposed to find that, amid so much hurt?

"I need to feel like I was rescued for some reason other than to keep on  _being_  rescued; I need to give you something back —"

"Calista," Severus murmured, gathering her suddenly back into his arms; she realised that she  _could_  hear the quiet simmering of the cauldron beside them, after all, when she really listened, "You already have; don't you realise that?"

"I don't think —" her protest was already muffled by his shoulder, but he cut it off neatly, for good measure.

"You're the reason I regained my Patronus," he told her, "I got it back after that first time I entered your mind — after I saw…"

He paused, and when she pulled back slightly to look at him, his expression was as closed as she had ever seen it.

"Saw what?" she whispered; Severus swallowed, and his mouth thinned. "Did it — I've read… Sparkman… did it change forms?"

 _Am_ I  _the doe?_  She thought wildly; but no, of course, she  _couldn't_ be, it was so unlike her, so light and free and pure, and he'd as much as said it was someone else, an old friend… someone he was grieving over; and moreover, he'd already told her before that it had never taken a different form.

"No," he said, grimly, "I've read Sparkman, too; and for the form to change…" He shook his head. "I'd have to come to terms with — "

He shifted, so that his hands were at her shoulders, but the mask over his eyes didn't slip at all, even when he met hers dead on. "I imagine," he said quietly, "That mine might very well change forms, on the day that I know you are safe, and well, and nothing and no one in my past or yours is going to hurt you again…"

"Who is the doe?" she asked, almost inaudibly, and her father let her go, and turned his face away. When his reply came, it was soft, and sad, and final:

"She's someone I can no longer hurt."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Most students stayed on at the castle for Easter break, especially those in their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. years who had mounting revisions, but Calista was almost unbearably relieved that her father had already promised they could go home, to the house in Cokeworth.

Her revisions were plentiful, especially since she was also studying to sit the Advanced Magical Theory certification exam, but Calista found the hours in the library, hiding behind a mountain of books, to be akin to seeking sanctuary. It helped, for a time, to drive her other thoughts away. Some nights, she even managed to fall into a fitful sleep, haunted by pages of text instead of her usual, darker nightmares.

She was doing her best to avoid Lupin, like she'd promised her father she would, but she thought it would be suspicious to change her seat, suddenly, in class, so she still sat in the front row, and tried to keep her nerves, and her knowledge, off of her face. She thought she was successful; but then, she'd already determined that Professor Lupin was an Occlumens as well, so if he did read it on her face, perhaps he simply didn't let on.

She found herself watching him carefully in the days leading up to the full moon; when she entered the classroom, she would sniff the air, hoping to pick up a trace of the distinctive bitter, medicinal scent of the Wolfsbane Potion, or any of its ingredients. She returned to her father's workroom, and watched him make the final adjustments to the brew they'd started together; he'd poured it into an ornate goblet, one she'd seen before but that neither of them ever used, and he had looked rather like he wanted to invite her to come along, but of course then Lupin would  _know_  that she knew, and that might get her father in trouble.

Because she was watching Lupin closely, she noticed particularly how ill and worn he appeared, on the days before and after the full moon, and though they still weren't really speaking — by his choice or hers, she didn't know anymore — she couldn't help but feel a sympathetic tug, somewhere inside her, when she considered his condition.

After all, didn't she know precisely how it felt, to live with your demons on the  _inside_? Perhaps her personal monster didn't have teeth and claws, but her nightmares were still full of blood and pain; and if the monster didn't take her over by the light of the moon, then it could just as well take her over by the etched lines of a familiar, sinister pattern, and cold fingers wrapped around hers, a whispered curse in her ear…

She couldn't explain to her father why she insisted, in the week's following her revelation regarding Professor Lupin's condition, on practising her resistance to the Imperius Curse again; thankfully, he didn't ask.

She had two new worries, as the Easter holidays approached, two fears that she couldn't avoid by simply burying her nose in a textbook. Once again, they both came by owl post.

The last week of March, she received another letter from Uncle Lucius. He wanted to schedule an interview, sometime at the very end of the academic year, for her to meet with Umbridge, and whomever else he'd bribed in the Minister's office. She realised that she still hadn't disclosed his offer to her father, or to anyone, which was undoubtedly what her uncle had wanted, anyway, when he'd advised  _discretion_. Her preoccupation with a hundred other unwelcome burdens had unwittingly made her compliant; the thought irked her more than she thought it ought to.

What irked her immeasurably more came only a few days later; another letter from Gerald, one that made her heart hammer in her chest in a way that she was not at all pleased with; one that set her nerves quivering so intently that she barely noticed his usual endearments and platitudes: instead, her eyes were drawn, again and again, to the same short paragraph, buried in the middle of his letter:

_I know you've wanted to help with my other problem, and I hope you can understand why I haven't been able to let you; but you should know that you won't need to worry about it anymore, very soon. Just when I feared I'd never be free of this onerous letter-writing arrangement, it appears we're approaching an end to it at last. My father has asked me to meet him, one final time, at the Manchester office of a Muggle solicitor; a friend of his, apparently. He has agreed that four letters a year will suffice going forward, and he wants us to sign some sort of agreement, making it official. I'll be legally bound — by Muggle contract law anyway, I suppose — to write to him those four times, but he's agreeing not to write me beyond that, and I don't have to worry about him coercing Terry into any kind of similar contract, because Terry's not of legal age to sign, anyway. I can only imagine that he's realised my willingness to comply is getting thinner and thinner; and though this isn't a perfect arrangement, it feels like standing in a puddle instead of an ocean; it's unpleasant, but I won't drown._

It all sounded just as reasonable as Gerald had presented it, but Calista couldn't shake a heavy feeling of dread; perhaps Gerald wasn't drowning, but she thought  _she_  might; she couldn't escape the certain fear that there was something he was missing, some trap to be had in his father's deal; but she couldn't find out  _what it was_ , if he wouldn't let her  _help._

He'd told her the date of the meeting, the Friday at the tail-end of Easter Break; it was coming too soon… but then, it was  _also_  a day that she was already going to be out of school, and only a short Apparition from where his meeting was to be held. She tried writing him, of course; she told him of her dread, of her certainty that the meeting was a trap, but he still refused to let her go with him, on the day of the meeting or any day prior to it.

He had promised to be careful, and to read every word of the contract before signing it, but still, her fears couldn't be allayed. She had the same nightmare once again, of watching a younger version of him cower from some tall, sinister man without a face; this time, the figure poked its wand at Gerald's chest, leaving sprouting scars that looked eerily like the lines Bellatrix had carved into her own skin, even though she already knew his scars felt different than hers did.

The only thing that made her feel slightly better was that he had also promised to come visit her at her father's house that week, before the meeting; that meant she had one final chance to convince him…

Two nights receiving Gerald's letter, the dream changed; when the figure raised its wand to attack Gerald, it shifted, suddenly, and then it was  _Umbridge_ , standing over Gerald, wearing precisely the same tight, simpering smile she'd used to ruin Calista's future; then, she was joined, suddenly, by another familiar figure.

_Her Uncle Lucius smirks, and puts his hand on Umbridge's pink-clad shoulder._

' _There's no need for any of this,' Her uncle says, and he looks right past Gerald, and at Calista, who is suddenly part of the dream, no longer a formless observer. 'Calista, you can have what you want, and your young man can have what he wants — just sign this contract, and everything will be all right.'_

_He flicks his wand; Calista flinches, but it's only a sheet of parchment, drifting towards her._

_She squints at the parchment, but she can't make out the words._

' _It's only an employment offer,' her uncle says, impatiently._

' _And it's the_ only _one you're likely to get, with that horrible past of yours,' Umbridge smirks. Her eyes shift, from Gerald's helpless figure, crouched on the floor, swinging up to her face instead._

' _Go,' Calista whispers, to Gerald, 'Leave, before she attacks you again —'_

' _Oh, it's all right,' Umbridge says, while Gerald scrambles to get off the floor, 'We've come to an agreement; I'll take his brother four times a year, you see — show him the inside of a cell at Azkaban...'_

' _No!' Gerald yells, reaching into his pocket and coming up empty; his eyes are panicked, flashing with fear behind his spectacles. 'No, that wasn't what I agreed to — and where's my wand?'_

_Umbridge laughs. 'You signed it over, to your father, don't you recall? It was all in the contract.'_

' _But I didn't — I haven't signed anything yet,' Gerald protests, 'And neither has Calista — let her go, let us both go!'_

 _Calista reaches out for him, wants to reassure him that_ she's _all right, it's him and his brother she's worried about — but suddenly, she realises that she_ is _the one who's trapped, after all; she cries out as a golden, gilded cage springs up around her, and wraps her fingers around the bars, looking out._

' _Welcome to your new office,' her uncle says, and then he winks, and suddenly they all fade away, Umbridge and Uncle Lucius and even Gerald, and instead she's staring straight ahead into a fantastic, blindingly bright curtain of flames; she turns her face away, but she feels the heat, searing against her skin._

_Then, darkness. For an instant, she thinks she's awake, and she opens her eyes, expecting to see the ceiling of her dormitory room, but instead she sees a figure, and the shadow of a great bird, taking off, and leaving nothing but a pile of ash in its wake._

_The figure steps forward._

' _Ah, young Calista,' Professor Dumbledore says, smiling with a misplaced merriness as he peers into her cage, 'I thought you said you didn't fancy yourself much of a phoenix, and yet here you are.'_

' _I'm not,' she says, and she grips the bars, tearing them open; she tears her eyes open at the same time._

Calista sat bolt upright in bed; she could feel sweat dripping down her forehead, and a chill running wild along her spine. She sucked in a breath of hot, stuffy air; no wonder she'd dreamed of fire, it was unbearably hot in here… she saw that one of her roommates had left a fire blazing in the fireplace at the other end of the room.

Mercifully, her roommates all appeared to be sleeping, still; that meant that, for once, she had managed not to cry out. But then, this hadn't been her usual nightmare…

Calista threw the blankets off, and slid out of bed, and into her shoes. After all, since when had she been even accidentally compliant?

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had hours to wait, before her father rose. She recalled prior trips to his quarters, in the dead of night, when he'd been up when she arrived, as if he never slept — or, more likely, as if he'd been alerted, somehow, to her impending presence.

She remembered, also, that she was technically forbidden from coming here, herself, in the dead of night, but now at least she knew the reason, and the height of the full moon had already passed, several days ago.

She was tired, but she couldn't risk sleeping again, not when doing so might bring any of her nightmares rushing back — and not when she'd finally decided to start making the infuriating men in her life  _listen_  to her, for a goddamn change.

She brewed herself some coffee in her father's tiny kitchen, and she penned a reply to her uncle, that she would send later in the day, after the sun came up; she thanked him very kindly for his intervention on her behalf, but told him she wasn't interested in a secretarial job, and that she wasn't interested in an alliance with Umbridge. She told him she had a solid offer from St. Mungo's, and that even though it wasn't what she really wanted to do, it was preferable to accepting something she hadn't earned. She also told him, as something of a peace offering, that she'd been talking to Gerald about their families meeting, and that perhaps they could arrange something over the summer.

When that was done, she withdrew the book of French runes from her hiding place, in the top drawer of the dresser in her old room, right where she kept the little journal, still. She brought it back to the table, along with a couple of the reference books she'd already chosen to help decode it, and she spread the work out, marking down the runes on a sheet of parchment that she could already sort of make out.

It made her ache, to read some of the sweet and tender things that Gerald had set out, in the pattern of runes; but it wasn't only pleasant. It made her throat feel like it was curling up in pain, when she read his description of her  _belle résistance,_ her beautiful resilience, when resilience suddenly didn't seem like enough, to her. After all, it hadn't brought her Patronus back; it hadn't brought her much of anything, except a series of dead-end job offers, and two people she loved, but was powerless to help.

There were a few more of his usual runes;  _Colibri_  appeared several times, as did  _Cœur_ , for heart; only this time, instead of calling  _her_  his heart, he appeared to be offering his to her. She was reminded of the way he'd signed a few of his letters, recently:  _Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais_  — My heart belongs to you forever. It had only struck her before as hopelessly corny, devastatingly romantic — but now she found it devastating in another way, because it wasn't really  _true_ , if he didn't fully know whom he was giving it to; and wasn't it stupid, after all, to keep him from saying three simple words, as if that was the only thing she was afraid he might take back after he learned the truth?

She completed perhaps half of the translation, and then she had to set it aside. It wasn't fair, she thought, to decipher all of the secrets he'd set out on the page, when she was still keeping her darkest one from him; the one that she feared might cause him to snatch the book, and its message, right back.

Nearly as soon as she'd stacked the books neatly up against the edge of the table, she heard the gentle creak of a door, and then the soft rustling of footsteps. Her father appeared in the kitchen, and she leapt up.

"I'll make some more coffee," she said, not looking at him until she knew she'd cleared her expression; she busied herself with the coffee for a few moments, and when she turned back, two mugs in hand, he'd already had a platter of breakfast sent up.

"French translations, again?" her father mused, eyeing the stack of books.

"I didn't finish," she said, setting one of the mugs carefully in front of him. "I guess I couldn't."

She felt his eyes on her, as she walked around the table, settling at her own place, fingers wrapped around the mug — her third cup of the day, not that she bothered to count, anymore.

"Difficulty concentrating?" her father asked, lightly; and Calista was suddenly so tired of secrets.

"No," she said, "I just couldn't stop myself from thinking — what if I tell him the truth, and he takes it all back?"

"You know that won't happen," he said, far from the first time he'd said as much.

"I  _don't_ know that," she insisted, "I don't know  _anything_  for a certainty, except that I still haven't managed to find whatever 'purpose' might bring my Patronus back. What if there  _isn't_  one, for me?"

Severus' eyes flickered. "Those are awfully heavy thoughts for a teenager to be wrestling with at six o'clock in the morning."

"I had another dream," she said, and when his shoulders jerked to attention, she shook her head quickly. "Just a — normal one, if any of mine are; just all the things that I haven't been able to resolve that I feel like I should have, by now…"

"Oh? Like what?"

She started with the letter, from her Uncle Lucius; it turned out that he had sent a similar one to Severus, though he wasn't explicit in what position would be offered, only that Umbridge had agreed Calista was owed  _something_  for the ordeal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him, and he immediately raised his eyebrows in response.

"I could ask you the very same question — in fact, I think I will. Why didn't you tell  _me_ , about the letter he sent to you?"

"Because I was never going to take it," she said, as quickly as he'd fired the question back at her, "Because a 'favour' isn't how I planned on getting a job — because I wanted to  _earn_  something; and because I'm not stupid enough to trust Umbridge after… after…"

She realised she'd never told him all of the details about how Umbridge had interfered with Gerald's Wizengamot testimony, years ago; she wasn't certain if she had his permission to, either. Instead, she changed tacks:

"I don't want anything from her, and I certainly don't want to  _work_  with her. I'd rather take the st — er, I'd rather just… take the Potions job."

"Well, no one can argue that you haven't earned that," her father said, and for a second she thought she'd gotten away with her gaffe; and then he added, a bit sourly: "The  _stupid_  Potions job, that is."

She felt herself flush. "I didn't mean — it's just… it's not really what I want…"

"I know," he said quietly; his expression flickered, and she thought it might soften, but it remained more or less impassive. "You wouldn't hate it though, would you?"

She blinked. There was a curious weight to his words; she wondered if it wounded him more than he normally let on, that she didn't want to follow precisely in his footsteps, even though she had said, when she was small, that she'd wanted to be just like him.

"No," she said at last, and she realised it was actually true; perhaps the calming, steadying bubble of the cauldron, a few days past, had reminded her of that. "I wouldn't hate it."

He nodded; she thought he looked relieved, and she wrinkled her nose briefly, wondering why it seemed to matter so much.

"Good," he said, and then: "I think it's perfectly fine for you to tell your uncle that you don't want to accept Umbridge's help, but you should be careful how you do so; do you mind if I look your reply over, before you send it?"

She exhaled. "I think — I'd rather if you did, anyway," she admitted, and he nodded again.

"So," he said, quietly, "What else is bothering you? What else is — ah,  _unresolved?_ "

Briefly, she saw the flash of the burning phoenix in her dreams, the gilded cage — and the Headmaster's inexplicable smile — but that was all too strange, and surreal, and anyway, she had hardly thought about that since the strange conversation they'd had, months ago, now.

She told him about Gerald's predicament instead; she explained to him how she'd tried every tactic she could imagine to try and get him to agree to let her help, but he was still refusing, just as Severus had predicted he might.

"I know he's trying to protect me," she said, "And I  _do_  understand, because if it was the other way around — if it was something with  _her_ , I'd never in a million years let him help  _me_ , if it meant they'd have to meet — but it's not the same, not really, and…"

"No," Severus agreed, "It's not the same, Calista; but you must understand, that to Gerald it undoubtedly feels as if it is; give him some more time, if you must."

"That's just it," Calista said, "There  _isn't_ time anymore; he's supposed to meet with his father and some sort of Muggle solicitor next Friday —"

Severus jerked his hand, spilling droplets of coffee on the kitchen table. He set the mug down, hastily, and pointed his wand, clearing the small mess. " _Why_?"

"He says his father is going to sign some contract, and so is he, saying Gerald only has to write him four times a year, and then he'll leave them both alone aside from that — but that  _can't_  be all it is, why would his father give up  _now_ , after putting him through so much? I can't' stop thinking there's got to be a trap that Gerald's not seeing."

"I'm inclined to agree," Severus said, darkly, "Can he get the contract ahead of time? If he can bring a copy to our house, perhaps I can look it over, and see if there are any spells embedded; I'd be very surprised if this solicitor actually turned out to be a Muggle…"

"I've asked him if he could," Calista said, "But I don't think he'll actually be able to. He says he'll look it over carefully, but I still… I can't stop worrying that something awful is about to happen, and I can't —" she stopped, and shook her head. "I just — I want to help him; I'd still want to, even if he  _did_  end up… even if he found out about the Mark, and hated me…"

"You don't bear the Mark," he reminded her, a bit sharply. "You're not connected to the Dark Lord; you're not even connected to her, anymore, other than by blood —"

Calista felt her mouth twist up. "Well, it was always by blood, wasn't it?"

Severus swore, quietly. "That's not what I meant."

"I know…"

Severus leaned forward. "Calista…"

There was something heavy in his voice, something that drew her eyes up to his face, expectantly.

His mouth twisted, much as she imagined hers must have just done. "That boy loves you," he said, quietly, wrenching the words out, "That — it isn't something you can just take back; believe me, I've tried."

There was a queer, dark look in his eyes; grief pulled at his mouth again, and she knew instantly where she'd seen precisely this look before.

"The doe," she murmured, before she could think better of it, "Whoever she was — you loved her, didn't you?"

He didn't reply, but he didn't have to; she'd already seen it, every time he cast his Patronus, in the way his eyes followed the silver light, as if he could drink it in; drink  _her_  in.

"I'll think further, on Gerald's problem with his father," he said, after a moment, an abrupt and clear shift in topic. "In the meantime — Calista, you don't need to tell anyone anything you don't wish to; but I hope you'll consider that a secret really only says one of two things: that you don't trust the person you're keeping it from, or that they shouldn't trust you."

"That's — but there's so much you still won't tell me — about…  _so many things_."

"Ah," her father said, and he dropped his eyes, "Then perhaps there are many things I still don't trust you to understand."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus and Calista had a quiet Easter; Draco was staying at school for the break to study for exams, so there was no formal dinner this year at Lucius and Narcissa's. Calista had been invited to Gerald's mother's house, but she didn't feel right about leaving her father alone on a holiday — not lately, not the way things had been — and so she'd declined without even mentioning it to her father. She still had no idea how to cook, so she'd kept him company while he did, and then she'd helped him clean up afterwards.

Gerald came over on Tuesday, but he had to wait until the evening, when he was out of work; she'd wondered if he had to wear robes to work, as it seemed that almost everyone at the Ministry had been wearing them when she'd gone there, but he arrived in black trousers and — Calista had to suppress a grin — a blue shirt.

He went almost immediately to the cupboards, and Calista was reminded powerfully of all the times he'd come over, during the summer, and had insisted on cooking for her, and for Severus by extension.

"You don't have to do that," she said, while Gerald withdrew a pan, and then went to check the icebox to see what else they had to cook with, "We can order something, there's a place at the corner…"

"I don't mind," Gerald said, "Really, I like cooking. The smells, the sounds… the stirring." He shook his head sheepishly, and pushed the cuffs of his sleeves slightly back, to wash his hands. "It's pretty strange, isn't it?"

Calista recalled the way she'd felt somehow centered, when she'd been working on the dittany infusion in her father's workshop.

"No," she said, "I don't think it's really all that strange, actually."

Gerald smiled fondly, and dried his hands. "Well, good."

"When Calista invited you over for dinner, I don't believe she intended that you would have to make it first." Calista managed not to start, but Gerald did, slightly, as Severus followed his voice into the tiny kitchen.

Gerald chuckled, recovering neatly; but she saw the way his pulse had jumped, briefly, at his throat. She had a flash, again, of her dream, of Gerald cowering from some faceless figure, and her eyes dropped inadvertently to where she'd felt the rough spots on his skin, weeks ago — what he'd said were his scars.

"It's all right," Gerald said, and Calista realised that even though he was speaking to her father, his eyes were on her; she must have realised where she was looking. "I was just telling Calista, I like to cook."

"Ah. Well, in that case, I'm not about to stop you."

His eyes flickered between them, briefly, and then he went back out to the living room, most likely to eavesdrop and pretend very hard that he wasn't.

Gerald was fiddling with the end of his sleeves, tugging them slightly back down; when he caught her looking, he turned abruptly, and began searching one of the kitchen drawers.

"What are you looking for?" Calista asked, "I can help… I mean, I can't actually  _do_  anything, but I mostly know where things are kept."

"I need a knife," Gerald said, and just like that, her heart skipped, and raced to life, just as his had done a moment ago."To chop these carrots…"

"Here," Calista said, leaning over quickly, pulling open the drawer next to the one he already had open, "They're — they're here…"

He nodded, and she could feel his eyes on her; he hesitated.

"Calista…?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, and she turned away; gods, what was wrong with her? She'd seen the tumble of knives in the drawer a dozen times; she'd used one dozens of times, in Potions class, and she'd even seen  _him_  use one of them, when he'd been cooking in this kitchen before. She felt a flash of irritation with herself; why couldn't she ever predict when she'd react like that, and when she'd be fine? Better yet, why couldn't she s _top_  reacting that way at all?

He shifted, and she thought he'd gone back to cooking, so she allowed herself to look up; too late, she realised that he'd only closed the drawer, and he was still looking at her, a concerned frown creasing his face.

"We… don't have to have carrots," he said, uncertainly, and Calista managed a small, weak chuckle.

"It's fine," she said, shaking her head slightly. "I like carrots; I promise."

"So, it's…" Gerald swallowed. "It's the knife, then?"

 _Fuck._ Calista felt her feature go blank, automatically; and then, suddenly, there were warm arms around her, and Gerald was kissing her forehead.

" _Je suis désolée, mon colibri_ ," he murmured, but Calista felt herself shaking her head, and pulling away.

"Why?" she asked, a bit more sharply than she intended, "You didn't do anything wrong."

He frowned, and then he was fingering the top button of his shirt, distinctly nervous.

"Neither… neither did you, when I…" he set his jaw, and shook his head, and started again. His voice came out thin, and strained, but steady:

"You didn't do anything wrong when I got nervous the last time we were together, because you'd found some of my scars, but you still apologised; I mean it the same way, I suppose. The… the same way we talked about, when we  _first_  talked about the things that happened to us."

"I don't feel sorry  _for_ you," Calista murmured, remembering, "I'm just sorry that it happened to you."

Gerald nodded, slightly relieved. "Exactly. That's what I meant."

A second too late, Calista realised she'd just essentially admitted that  _something_  with a knife had happened to her; she took a half-step back, and Gerald sighed, and turned back to the stove.

She noticed, though, that he didn't go back for a knife, after all; instead, he drew his wand, and used a charm to chop the vegetables, though she knew from her Potions experience that it wouldn't be as precise. She felt a brief, powerful surge of affection; perhaps not least of all because it was easier to do so when his back was turned, and she no longer felt the weight of his eyes.

"I suppose it seems irrational," she said, after a minute; she saw him pause his chopping, but he didn't turn. She was quiet until he started working again, and then she added: "The… I mean, I don't  _always_ react like that. Just… sometimes."

They were quiet for a few minutes, and Gerald added the finely chopped vegetables, and a bit of chicken, to a pan. She thought perhaps he hadn't heard her, over his work, and she'd just realised with a jolt of surprise that she was disappointed by that, when he finally answered her.

"It's not irrational," Gerald said, reaching down to turn the knob on the stove, switching it on. "Or, at least, it's not abnormal. Trauma changes the mind in funny ways. Some memories get connected when they shouldn't, and some connections that should form never do. Sometimes the context of a moment is just right to trigger a reminder, or… or a reaction, and sometimes it's not. Sometimes, something happens that I realise later  _should_  have bothered me, but it didn't, because I just wasn't paying attention, and then every once in awhile I  _do_  react to something I shouldn't." He swallowed. "Like… like you, last time. I was worried you'd be offended, because I was startled…"

She saw his shoulders tense, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to run her hands over them, to steady him and — honestly, just to touch him.

"I wasn't," she said, and then, in the interest of honesty: "Well; maybe for a few seconds, I suppose, but — not really. I mean… obviously, I understand."

She stepped closer again; she was close enough now to touch his shoulder, so she did, in the same familiar gesture they'd each used before; she saw his shoulders relax slightly, and she managed a small smile.

"How do you know so much?" she asked, hesitantly, "I mean — how do you know to explain it so well? I always feel like I'm just — I don't know, it doesn't always make  _sense_  to me, when I react like that, and I… " she chuckled darkly, "I usually just get angry with myself."

He nodded. "I used to feel that way pretty often, but I'm trying to understand it better. I mean, we have to  _live_  this way, so we might as well find a way to come to terms with it, right?"

"You make it sound simple."

It was Gerald's turn to let out a short, humourless laugh. He covered it by opening the drawer to his let, and rummaging around for a spatula. "It's not simple," he said, "It's — loads of berating myself, and then rationalising, and then, finally, I make myself read about it some more, until the words start to make sense…"

Calista blinked. "What do you mean, read about it? Aren't we — I thought we were talking about… about…"

"The reactions," Gerald said, glancing over his shoulder, with a slightly puzzled expression. "The memories resurfacing… all of that?"

She nodded, but she dropped her eyes from his face, and made herself look at the contents of the pan, instead; the chicken was starting to brown, and the vegetables were sizzling. She found the noise a bit soothing, maybe because she imagined it might cover up their conversation from anyone who happened to be listening from the room beyond.

"Haven't you read any books about post-traumatic stress disorder?" he asked, "I must have read a dozen, most of them three or four times, before any of it started to really sink in…"

"What? Post —  _what_?"

She felt his shoulder tense again, underneath her palm; and then, he set the spatula down, beside the stove, and turned to her again.

"Oh my — oh, I'm an idiot," Gerald said, "I forgot, I completely forgot, you haven't… you wouldn't…" he shook his head, and then he reached for her hands, quite earnestly, ignoring the food on the stove. "They're all written by Muggles — you wouldn't have heard of them, would you?"

"Erm — obviously not," Calista said, cautiously, "What's — what's post traumatic whatever you said? And I think that chicken's going to burn…"

"It's — oh,  _Calista_ , I'm so sorry I never thought to say…" he half-turned, and released one of her hands to turn the burner off, carelessly, and then immediately took her hand up again. "I forget, sometimes, that you've only known the way things are in the  _wizarding_ world, and they're woefully ignorant of things like psychology and — oh,  _mon cœur_. Post traumatic stress disorder; it's a name for the kinds of things people like us go through… the nightmares, the remembering, the… the triggers…"

Calista blinked. "There's — that's — I mean, there's a  _name_? There are  _books_?"

She remembered when she'd learned, sometime after going to live with her father, that some of the things she'd gone through had a name:  _child abuse_ ; it had seemed so strange, and yet such a  _relief_ , at the time, to be able to compartmentalise and name something that had seemed, for so long, to be just  _the way her life was_ ; she felt the same old feeling come rushing in now, leaving her feeling weak and dizzy and — Merlin, yes, oddly  _relieved_.

Gerald's arms came around her again, and this time she didn't pull away; she felt a soft, light kiss at her temple.

"Yes,  _mon colibri_ , there are books," he told her, "I'm going to owl you some tonight, as soon as I get home — can I take Lucerne with me? I've got quite a few that I'd like to send; and then, maybe later this week, or over the summer, I think you should come with me to a bookstore — a regul— er, a  _Muggle_ bookstore. It's not just  _those_  books… there's so much you're missing, by only reading books written by witches and wizards, you know."

"Yes, and yes," she said, quietly; she thought she could hear the shuffle of footsteps from the next room, and she realised the entire kitchen smelled delicious; of course her father would realise that dinner was ready, even though Gerald hadn't said so. "You can take Lucerne when you go," she clarified quickly, "And I'll go to the bookstore with you."

As if she'd summoned him with her prediction, Severus appeared in the doorway; his eyes immediately went to where they stood, sandwiched together in the tight space between the stove and the kitchen table; he seemed, for a moment, to be trying to read the situation.

"The plates," he said, after a few seconds, "Are in the cupboard behind you, Calista."

She flushed slightly, and extracted herself from Gerald's arms.

"I live here," she said, managing to sound acceptably snarky, despite the magnitude of the conversation she'd just been having. "I do know where we keep the plates."

The meal, once they'd all sat down to it, was predictably very good; everything Gerald cooked seemed to be. They didn't talk much, though Severus did ask Gerald a couple of polite questions about his job. It struck Calista, in fact, that her father seemed to be going out of his way to be  _exceptionally_  pleasant; she wondered how much of their conversation he had managed to overhear: and she wondered if  _he_  knew about the sorts of books Gerald had described.

She'd just been reminded a few days ago that he had grown up a half-blood, too, with one Muggle parent just as Gerald had, but she was certain that if he'd known about such books, he would have directed her towards them. But then, despite the sardonic nickname he'd given himself in school, her father didn't really talk about his Muggle side much, while Gerald had never seemed to have a problem talking about it.

"I think," her father said, at last, as they were finishing their meal, "That I should take care of the dishes, as the two of you prepared dinner."

Calista blinked. "Well,  _I_ didn't really do anything —"

He glanced at her, but continued, smoothly: "And in fact, I have a few potions to brew down here, this evening."

Calista felt her breath catch; was he going to make Gerald  _leave_? They'd just started to talk… and for once, she was feeling almost normal, despite the heavy topic.

"So I suggest the two of you go upstairs to visit," he finished, and Calista kept her jaw from dropping only with significant effort.

He always suggested visiting upstairs in her room when Amelia was over, but he'd never allowed her to bring Gerald — or any boy — up to her room for longer than the initial three minutes he'd grudgingly allowed the very first time Gerald had come over to visit. She hadn't even bothered  _asking_  him; but then, she realised, that had been quite a long time ago, and her father knew Gerald fairly well by now, and  _also_  knew that he'd never been anything other than respectful towards her.

"I don't mind cleaning up —" Gerald started, but Severus straightened, and shook his head, slightly.

"I  _insist_ ," he said, and then: "Ah, actually — Gerald, may I have a word, first? Calista, you can go upstairs."

Calista managed — barely — to suppress an eyeroll. She supposed she ought to expect that he'd want to lecture Gerald before allowing him to go up to her room; nevermind that she never shut her bedroom door, because the trap door was too unwieldy to bother with; nevermind that Gerald was always, frankly,  _too_ perfect of a gentleman, and nevermind that she was  _eighteen years old now_ , for Merlin's sake.

Still, he'd been mostly pleasant that evening, so she refrained from reminding him sarcastically that Gerald was well-versed in antidotes, and she went up to her room. Yellow yawned and opened one eye, briefly, when she got to the top of the stairs and climbed through the trapdoor, and then carried on ignoring her.

Calista smoothed the covers on her bed, even though they were already perfectly straight, and then she started to adjust the books on her shelves, evening out the spaces where the ones she had at school ought to have been.

She felt her nerves pick up, when five minutes had passed, and then ten; he wasn't  _really_  threatening Gerald, was he? She was just about to go back downstairs when she heard footsteps coming up the lower set of stairs at last.

Hastily, she brushed at her clothes, hoping to dispel any of Yellow's fur that had ended up on her; it always seemed to cling onto her, the second she entered the room the cat was in, and she'd foolishly worn her softest black trousers, which collected it like a magnet.

There was a bit of a peculiar look on Gerald's face when he came up through the trapdoor, but she saw him trying to hide it, and she turned back to the nearest shelf, straightening a book that was already straight, to give him a few seconds to clear his expression, if that was what he wanted to do.

"I hope he wasn't too awful," she said, brushing her fingers along the spine of the book.

"No, he was… fine."

There was definitely something odd in his voice; Calista frowned.

"I'm quite certain those books can't possibly be shelved any straighter," Gerald observed, and Calista turned back to face him; he'd taken a few steps closer, now, and she could see that whatever had clouded his expression was hidden away, now.

" _Tu es trés belle, mon colibri_ ," he murmured, _you're very beautiful_ , and she shook her head, slightly nervous; she thought it was because they were in her room, but perhaps it had something to do with their conversation downstairs, too.

"I'm fairly certain I've got cat hair all over my trousers," she countered; but if it was true, Gerald obviously didn't care. He reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips in an achingly familiar gesture.

"That's so corny," she admitted, "And yet, I still love when you do it."

Gerald's mouth flickered into a little grin. " _Je sais_."  _I know._

"I… love that, too."

" _Une fois de plus… je sais._ "  _Once again... I know._

She felt a smile find its way to her lips, despite herself.

" _Et toi… tu es… tu es trop mignon_ ," she tried, "Is that right?"  _You're too cute._

Gerald chuckled. "Well… it sort of makes me sound like a puppy, or something, but I suppose I'm not offended, considering."

She scowled, but that only made Gerald laugh harder.

"Well, then what am I supposed to say, instead?"

He let go of her hand, and stepped closer, pulling her to him, despite her scowl and despite whatever cat fur there might have been on her clothes.

"Hmm," he said, and he kissed her forehead, for a third time that day; and then, quickly, he moved on to other places, leaving a trail of kisses on her cheeks, her nose, and then, finally, her mouth.

"How about," he mused, when she'd almost forgotten the, question, " _Tu es beau_ …" he reached for her hand, keeping one arm around her, and he lifted it, placing it gently against his chest, over the buttons near his collar. She felt his fingers tremble, slightly, when he set hers, there, and she hesitated, running her fingers up to the top button, experimentally.

" _Tu es beau,_ " she repeated, quietly; she met his eyes, and she tried to ask the question, with hers:  _Is it okay?_

He took a small, nervous sort of breath, and he lifted her hand again, kissing the tips of her fingers; and then, as if in answer, he set them back, where they'd been, at his top button. " _Et je veux te toucher_ …" he murmured.

" _Je veux te toucher_ ," Calista agreed,  _I want to touch you_ , and her fingers worked the button loose. "I  _always_  want that… every time I see you."

Gerald kissed her, again, and it struck her as decisive, as if he were making up his mind about something.

" _Fais ce que tu veux_ ," he whispered, and it took her a second to translate, to realise what he'd said; she felt a small smile fighting its way to her mouth, and then she kissed him back, every bit as decisively.  _Do whatever you want._

" _D'accord_ ," she stumbled a bit over the pronunciation, but not over her actions; with the one hand, she worked on the next button; with her other, she took  _his_  hand, and she put it at her waist. She pushed the hem of her blouse — her favourite yellow blouse — up slightly, and pressed his palm against the exposed skin there; suddenly, it was like there was music in her head, or the sun had come out — it was so simple, but she realised she'd wanted to feel his hands on her skin for quite some time, and he was always… so… damn…  _polite_.

She felt him exhale, something like a sigh, and then their mouths were tangled together, again, and for a minute, everything was perfect — she slid her fingers through the gap in his partially-unbuttoned shirt, and ran them along his collarbone, and started exploring.

He was startled, again, when her fingers ran over the textured, raised spots on his skin, and she stopped kissing him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I thought — I thought it was okay."

He swallowed, hard, and shook his head. "No — it  _is_ okay. I just… I'm just nervous. I don't want…" he chuckled, darkly, "I don't want you to be repulsed."

"Gerald?" he was looking away now, so she tapped his chin with her finger, and he looked back at her. "That's not going to happen. You could have feathers, for all I care."

He managed a weak half-smile. "That's right; you did say you'd still like me, once, even if my family were hippogriffs."

"I meant it," she said, quite sincerely; and then, when she was certain he believed her, she lowered her eyes, and her hand, again.

She fingered the edges of his shirt, where it was partly unbuttoned. "May I?" she asked, quietly, borrowing his favoured phrase; stiffly, he nodded. She was certain his heart would be beating double-time, and when she put her fingertips to the hollow at the base of this throat, she could feel that it was. She waited, not moving her hand an inch, until she felt it start to slow again, until his breaths came more evenly.

Finally, gently, she pushed some of the fabric aside, and let her fingers explore; like before, she noted that his skin was softer than she'd expected, and very warm. She wondered if her fingers felt cold, to him.

The rough spots were approximately circular, slightly raised, and somewhat darker than the rest of his skin. She knew instantly what they must be from, because of what they looked like, and because of what he'd told her, before.

She let her fingers find one of them, and she looked up at him. "From his wand?" she murmured, and Gerald nodded, tightly. His heart started to pound faster, again; she could feel it, with her hand over his chest.

There were four of the marks that she could see, but she had a feeling there were many more; she loosened one more button, and confirmed it. There were a couple of other marks, too, thin lines or discolourations, but it was the spots that were most noticeable, and she could tell that was what he was most worried about.

Once she'd taken in the scars, she took in the rest of him; perhaps it was strange, and perhaps she looked a bit longer than was necessary, but she'd never really seen a boy like this before outside of illustrations in the books Narcissa had supplied, and she was curious. His nipple was darker and smaller than hers, and he had a scattering of fine, brown hairs towards the centre of his chest that for some reason she hadn't expected.

"Please say something," Gerald said, after a few minutes, "Even… even if it's something bad."

She looked up at him, and she knew, suddenly, exactly what to do, and exactly what to say.

She kissed him, at the hollow she loved at the centre of his collarbone; and then she kissed him, further along his collarbone, and then she kissed right by the uppermost of the dark, roughened spots.

" _Tu es beau_ ," she said, " _Et je veux te toucher_."

He laughed, probably much more intently than he'd meant to, and his arms came around her, again. He kissed her cheek, and then the side of her neck.

"I love you," he said, easily and nonchalantly; and then Calista froze, and so did he.

"I — that was entirely — I forgot," Gerald said, his smile melting away into a concerned frown; she noticed that he didn't let go of her, even though she had let her hands fall away from him. "I don't think I can quite bring myself to say I'm sorry, though," he admitted.

"I…" Calista swallowed; her mind was screaming at her to pull away, to  _run_  away, to demand that he leave; she wondered, wildly, if that was what she really wanted to do, or if that instinct, that  _reaction_ , was part of that thing Gerald had told her about — the thing with the name.

"I'm nervous," she admitted, because he'd done as much earlier, "I feel like I want to run away…"

"I know," Gerald said, sadly; she felt a surge of guilt, for managing to drive away a perfect moment with her problems  _again_.

"Is it — is that feeling… wanting to run away and hide… is that part of it, do you think? The… the post traumatic thing?"

Gerald frowned. "It can be," he said, uncertainly, and then: "Calista, I don't know what to do. I don't want you to run away, but I don't want to tell you you  _can't_ , either; and I can't take back what I said, even if you want me to, because even though it was an accident, it was sincere. I  _do_  l—"

"Stop," she said, and he did, immediately. His hands came off her, reluctantly, and suddenly she wished that they hadn't. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself.

Gerald flushed, and started fidgeting with his buttons, nervously, attempting to re-fasten them and just like before, his fingers trembled; something about it seemed to tear open a hole in her gut, and suddenly, she'd had enough. She stepped back towards him, and she tugged one of his arms away from his body, and she slipped herself underneath it, pressing close to him. As if it were automatic, both of his arms came around her, and it eased some of the panic coursing through her mind.

"Do you know about blood magic?" she asked him; and she realised as soon as she said it what she'd decided, in that moment when she'd stood alone, and watched him try to cover up his own scars, and had known  _exactly_  how he felt.

"Not very much," he admitted, cautiously. "I know most of it is considered — very Dark."

"That's what she did. To me." She could feel her eyes burning, and even though she wasn't crying, yet, she knew it was inevitable; bile rose in her throat, like fire; her brain was screaming at her to  _shut up_ , to stop talking, to wrench herself away, to run downstairs. Gerald's arms tightened around her, slightly, and his chin came down to rest on top of her head, and she settled closer, instead of away; at first, it felt like a mistake, and then — then she could hear his pulse, from that beautiful hollow at his throat, right by her ear, and she went on.

"I don't know the spell. I think she prepared it before. I only remembered… I only saw…"

She swallowed some of the fire, and waited until the threat of its return receded, slightly.

"I guess it was — I always used to try to run away, when she took me outside. I don't really remember, but she always said I did — it made her angry, and I guess that was why. She… I told you before that she modified my Trace, she tied a curse into it, so she could always find me… remember, you even  _said_ , it would have to be extraordinarily Dark magic…"

"I'm sorry,  _mon cœur_ ," Gerald whispered, somewhere above her head, and this time she knew right away precisely how he meant it, so it didn't bother her.

"The blood part — it was mine. She… she cut me, with a nn—"  _Shit;_ she could feel the tears now, streaming down her face as if the fire had managed to come out of her after all, just through a different means. But she'd already come this far; she didn't think she'd have the strength to ever start again, if she stopped now.

"A knife," she managed, and then she raised her voice slightly, because it had dropped to such a low whisper that she was afraid he wouldn't hear, and she knew she'd never be able to repeat this part, if he didn't. "And I don't know if it — if it had to be  _that_ , for the spell, or if it was just because — just because it's the worst thing she could think of, but — she… she cut the shape of… she made it look like…"

She choked, on a sob; and Gerald's arms tightened, yet again, and she allowed herself to fall silent, just for a few seconds, so she could savour how nice it felt, in case the little serpents in her gut had been right all along, and this was the last time he'd want to hold her, like this.

"It's all right, Calista," he murmured, after a moment, and she nearly wrenched free, at that, but his arms held her tight.

" _No_ ," she said; she thought her voice would come out as a hoarse, ugly whisper, but instead it came out sounding small and wounded. "It's not all right — she… she… it's the Dark Mark; she cut the fucking  _Dark Mark_  into me…"

Gerald's grip shifted, and for a second she was terrified that she'd been  _right_ , that he was going to be the one pushing  _her_  away this time, in revulsion, in disgust —

She barely had time to think it, when his arm tightened once more at her waist; his other hand was at her shoulder now, palm pressing down in the reassuring, calming gesture they always used for each other — and she knew that tears were still streaming down her face, but they didn't feel as hot, anymore; she realised her heart was racing only when it began, infinitesimally, to slow.

"Calista," he said, quietly; she couldn't bring herself to look at his face, still, even though he was doing all the right things; what if she saw something in his face that contradicted the warmth of his grip?

She lifted one hand, to stubbornly push the tears off her cheeks; and then, as if she'd given him an opening, Gerald lifted his hand from her shoulder, and placed it under her chin, instead, tilting it level to look at him; she closed her eyes.

The slightest, softest pressure along her cheekbone startled them open again; he was brushing her tears away, as he'd done before, and she  _still_  didn't know how he managed to touch her so lightly, or how it felt so intimate.

"I love you," he said, quietly, and she did look in his eyes now; and oh gods, despite  _everything_ , despite what he knew now — she could see plainly that it was true. " _Je t'aime_.  _Te amo. I_ _s breá liom tú_. I'm running out of languages to say it in, but I'll learn some more, if it will make you believe me."

"Please," Calista managed, and her throat felt tight, but it no longer felt like it was on fire, "Just — just say it one more time, in English."

"I love you, Calista," he said, and he pressed his mouth very lightly to her cheekbone, where his fingertips had just been. " _Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais._ "

She sucked in a breath, dismayed but not particularly surprised that it shuddered along the way.

"I love you too, Gerald," she said, " _In toto corde meo te amo_."  _I love you with my whole heart._

His mouth twitched, into a small smile that still appeared slightly sad, because his eyes were quite solemn; but maybe it wasn't  _sad_ , per se, she realised; maybe it was just very, very sincere.

"I thought we agreed that wasn't fair," he murmured, and she must have looked at him in confusion; he ran his thumb along her cheekbone again, and reminded her, softly: " _Tu sais bien que je ne peux pas résister aux belles filles qui me parlent en Latin_."  _You know very well that I cannot resist a beautiful girl speaking to me in Latin._

She felt something warm and sweet bubbling up inside her; it seemed impossible to feel this way, after what she had finally confessed, but she  _did_. It was as if she'd been poisoned, and he'd been carrying the antidote, all along; but then, he  _was_ very good with them.

" _I_ thought we agreed," she said, "That you weren't going to resist…"

His kiss was quite soft and gentle at first, but she did her best to make it clear that she was a very willing participant, and soon — soon it was just like she'd imagined, except they weren't precisely in a library; still, they were surrounded by books, and their mouths were locked together, and both of their hands were wandering, exploring — it was beautiful, and it was exciting, and it was somehow  _comfortable_ , because she didn't have to worry about him finding out about something he already knew was there — and also, probably, because it was  _Gerald_.

It didn't take long for their mouths to start wandering, just as their hands were — and then she paused, with both hands on his chest, and his mouth by her collarbone; one of his hands was flat against the centre of her stomach, and the other was in her hair.

"I just realised," she managed; how was she so short of breath? "This is — I'm pretty certain we're doing exactly what my father lectured you about for fifteen minutes; I don't want him to be cross with you, if he comes up here…"

"He was actually setting out the ingredients for a burn-healing paste, when I came upstairs," Gerald said; she noticed that he sounded a bit breathy, too, and if she hadn't already been practically on fire, it would certainly have made her blush. "And that wasn't — that's not what we talked about."

"It's  _not_?"

In  _that_ case, she was fully prepared to start kissing him again; but this time, it was Gerald, who retreated, slightly, though he did take up both of her hands in his.

"No," he said, and he frowned, looking suddenly uneasy. "It was… we talked about my father."

Calista swallowed; her blush faded, and she felt as if reality had just come crashing back down, on both of them.

"Oh," she said, and then: "You… you don't still have that meeting on Friday, do you?"

He nodded, and then he took a breath, and let it out. "I do. And I…"

His mouth knotted tighter, a deeper frown, and he shook his head, and pushed a string of words out, words it took her a moment to decipher.

"I don't like it at all," he said, grimly, "But I promised your father that I would let you come with me, if you still want to."

Her eyes went wide, as the meaning of the words confirmed themselves in her mind.

"You  _did_  — I mean, I  _can_?"

"I don't like it," he said again, "And — Calista, I have to ask if you'll  _please_  consider changing your mind; but he said… he seemed to think… that it might be something you have to do, to get your Patronus back, and I…"

"I think it might be," she said, quickly, "It's — I have to find a  _purpose_ , something I can take from everything bad that's happened and do something good with; it makes sense, don't you see? I'm a legilimens  _because of her_ , and if I could help  _you_  with it…"

His frown deepened, but then he nodded, reluctantly. "It makes sense," he said, "I really wish it didn't, but it does; you can come."

She felt a wave of something; not joy, exactly, because this certainly wasn't a  _happy_ thing, but something that hummed and vibrated in her blood; maybe it was exactly what she was searching for. Maybe it was  _purpose._

"Please listen to me, though, Calista," Gerald went on, voice taut and eyes unusually dark with worry, "I want you to stay away from him, and away from me, though I want to be able to see you. It's got to be just like you said before, all right? You're just — someone who happens to be there; he's not going to know who you are, and you're not going to talk to him."

"All right; that's fair."

"I mean it. I can't have him targeting you, after all this. I'll try my best to stand so that you can get a good look at him without seeing you, but if it can't be done, you've got to just let it go, all right?"

"But if I can't get a good enough look —" his expression shifted, and she could see him about to rescind his consent; she changed tacks, hastily: "Just don't sign anything," she said, "No matter what he says, no matter what the contract says — don't sign anything until I can talk to you, and tell you if I picked anything up, all right?"

He considered, and then he nodded. "I suppose that's fair, too," he agreed.

They discussed the plan in a bit more detail, but as time went on, Calista couldn't help but notice that his shirt was still partially unbuttoned; she tried not to stare, but her curiosity was quickly growing into something else — something that made her make a mental note to have another conversation with her aunt, soon, if she could stand the embarrassment.

He caught her looking, and she saw him wince; he started to fumble with the the buttons, for a third time, and she reached out, and touched the back of his hand, drawing his eyes to her face.

"They don't bother me," she told him, quietly. "I still think you're —  _trés beau_.  _Trop mignon_. Whichever one is right. Probably both."

"It's not just the ones you saw," he said, as if he were trying to convince her to change her mind, "They're — they're on my back, too…"

Calista snorted; it was a derisive, unpleasant sound, and it was out, and her hand was scrabbling at the back of her blouse, before she had time to think better of either one of them.

"I told you what I have on  _my_  back — here, take a look; it's a hundred times less attractive, I promise you."

She lost her nerve almost as soon as she'd turned around, and let go of her blouse, but before she took a step away, he had evidently caught the hem, and pulled it back up; she felt the faint tickle of his breath on her skin, and then —

She flinched as his fingertip brushed the edge of the scarred area, despite his light touch.

"See?" she said, feeling her mouth twist up, "It's horrible — it's —"

"It's not really all that clear," he murmured, from behind her; she felt his breath grow warmer, and closer, as he evidently leaned over to examine it closer; she shivered, despite herself.

"May I?" he said, and she shrugged, but he didn't move.

"Fine," she said, strained; and then, lightly, his fingers brushed over the spot again. She didn't flinch this time, though she expected to; she expected, too, that it would be painful, for him to touch it, but it wasn't; it felt like he was brushing over ordinary skin, as if there was nothing there. She wondered, wildly, for a second, if she'd directed him to the right spot, but of course she had.

"I'm not certain I would have known what it was, if you hadn't already told me," he admitted quietly, "Some of the lines are quite faint…"

"That's…" Calista swallowed. "I haven't looked in a long time," she said ,"But I always imagine they're… red, and angry."

He made some kind of motion; she thought he might have been shaking his head.

"They're white," he said, "A little bit lighter than the rest of your skin — and I can see some of the lines all right; the ones here, at the bottom, the snake, right? But a lot of it up here —" his finger trailed lightly upwards again, "Is hard to make out."

She felt the fabric of her shirt fall back around her, and then he was very close, and she felt her heart began to calm, by degrees, in response. He placed his hands at her shoulders, steadyingly.

"You can feel them, though," he admitted, a bit sadly. "With your fingers — they're raised, like mine. I guess you can't forget they're there."

"No," Calista agreed, "I can't."

"Well," Gerald said, "I can't forget about mine, either."

She nodded, and willed the familiar burning in her eyes to stop; she didn't want to cry again, not after everything… and really, there had been so much hope, to come out of the heartbreak; hadn't she gained so much more than she'd lost, by telling him…?

" _Mon colibri_ ," he murmured, suddenly and firmly, near her ear; his hand slid over, from her shoulder to her neck, drifting along it, and then along the edge of her ear just where she liked, softly and quite tenderly.

"I hope you still realise —  _Tu es belle, et je veux te toucher_."


	18. Chapter 18

Severus prided himself on waiting almost a full two days before telling Calista what he knew. He watched her, silently waiting for her to bring it up herself, but she was almost unusually quiet.

It wasn't the same sort of quiet that he'd often likened to a developing storm cloud, brooding and full of impending dark energy; it was a more reflective sort of quiet, one that had her writing at least three letters over the course of two days, and burying her nose in a stack of new and unfamiliar books that had suddenly appeared in their home, sometime after Boot's last visit.

Still, he knew; he caught the truth in the particular quirk of her mouth, when her owl swooped through the kitchen window, in the light he glimpsed in her eyes whenever she glanced up from scrawling yet another letter or turning a page, and in the steadiness of her hands, the lift of her chin, when she moved.

He always observed her, when she was quiet: sometimes, to see if he needed to intervene, before her storm broke of its own accord, for she had the tendency to be swept along in her own gale, and more than once he'd been convinced she was determined to drown before she'd reach a hand out for rescue. Sometimes, when he observed her, she had already stranded herself out at sea, and he was simply watching for a sign that she was ready to return.

Observing her now was like watching the sun come up over the sea on a clear day after a clear night; she was still and gleaming and steady, and if there were any waves at all, they did not crest high enough to nestle shadows between.

As he observed, Calista turned a page, shifting her position on the sofa across the tiny living room from him; she brought her knees up, resting the book against them, and suddenly he could make out part of the title from the cover:

_Understanding Posttraumatic Phenomena_

The problem, Severus reflected, with relying on light from the sun was that it was only borrowed; soon enough, night would fall, and just as certain as the dark was the promise of a new storm, on the horizon. There would  _always_  be another storm, another dark and seemingly endless night; he could only hope that someday, she would stop insisting on going out in the night and the storm alone.

To truly survive in the dark, one had to  _be_  a star, rather than reflect the light of one; but he knew better than anyone how difficult it could be to pick out the faint, pinprick glitter of a single star against the black canvas of night. The trick was to locate a constellation; a network of other stars, other hearts — even when obscured by wind and rain, and heavy, dark clouds, those stars were connected, invisibly and intangibly but undeniably; even if you could not see them, they would never be alone, and they would continue to shine, together.

He knew the lesson like he knew Calista's runic charms; though she had tried to teach him, it always seemed to work better for her than it did for him. He had no problem  _finding_  other stars; the problem he had was in convincing them he belonged among them. There were a great many mistakes he had made that he wanted to prevent his daughter from making, too, and this was one of them. He thought it might be the one that, if he had not made it himself, might have prevented the vast majority of his  _other_  mistakes.

"You told him," Severus said, to put an end to his musings, and startling both of them; he saw Calista look up from her book, saw the transition from page to reality, as her eyes focused and cleared.

"Yes," she said, nodding just once, and tucking her chin in slightly, "I told him."

Severus rested his finger in the crook of the book he'd been pretending to read, while ruminating on… well, on navigating, perhaps.

"And?" he prompted.

She smiled, a certain slow and sincere smile that he had seen infrequently enough to be able to assign a soul to each and every occasion where he had: Lupin, once, in her memories, though he liked to pretend that hadn't happened; that blasted cat, which wounded him only slightly less; and then, several times in a row,  _himself_. Her most ubiquitous friend, Amelia, and her younger friend, the Slytherin she looked out for — Daisy. And now… now, it was Boot.

"And," Calista said, quietly, around the edges of her smile, "You were right."

"It has been known to happen."

"Well… this time, I'm really glad you were." Calista tilted her head slightly, and then, hesitatingly: "I wrote him a letter, too, after he left… I told him about the Pensieve, and about… about having to take the memory back."

"Ah." Severus sensed there was more coming, so he waited; he observed.

Calista shifted again, and a shaft of sunlight through the front window caught in her hair, setting it glittering very much like surface of the sea he'd just internally compared her to.

"He said he wished I'd told him, before… he said he would have been there, when I took the memories back, if… if I'd have let him."

"If you'll recall, I did suggest that several times."

Calista nodded. "I know. At the time, I didn't think… I didn't want him to know. I didn't want  _anyone_  to know." She lowered her voice, and now it came out small: "And I didn't really understand how bad it was going to be."

"I tried to tell you," Severus said; he felt lost, suddenly, as if perhaps he was the one drifting out to sea. "I tried to prepare you."

"I know," Calista said, again, "But I'm starting to think — maybe there are things that it's impossible to be prepared for, really."

Severus quirked a brow. "You're  _starting_  to think that, are you?"

Calista nodded, either missing the irony in his tone or, more likely, choosing to ignore it. "Yes, I am; but it doesn't only apply to bad things, you know."

"Oh?"

She was silent, for nearly a full minute, but he could see, again, that it was not a bad silence; it was not a silence of storms, but a silence of starlight.

"You were right about something else, too," she said at last, "Gerald… he does…"

She swallowed. Severus felt a queer, curious tightness in his throat, which he promptly blamed on the lingering dust that they'd never quite been able to clear from the house, no matter how many Scouring Charms they'd each applied.

"He loves me," she said, almost wonderingly, "And I…"

"I know," Severus rasped; damn it, why did his voice sound so hoarse, suddenly?

"I love him, too," she admitted, with a quiet sort of certainty.

He felt a sudden, perverse desire to challenge her; to point out her youth, or any of a handful of trivial flaws in either of them he could grasp at, or to ask her how she could possibly know such a thing, for certain…

But she  _did_  know, and so did he, just as surely as they both knew that the next night would fall, and the next storm would come; and, for once, he might not be the only one trying to keep her from drifting away, from slipping under the heavy, black waves.

"Do you have your wand?" he asked, suddenly; she nodded, and shifted, and snatched it up from the table beside the sofa.

"Try the charm," he said, and she understood, immediately.

She set her book aside, slipping a bookmark from the front cover to mark her page, and then she stood, and took a breath, gripping her wand.

She closed her eyes; he could see her concentrating, see her reaching for whatever memories she chose, this time, to seek her strength from.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," she said, and —

The room was lit, suddenly, with a beautiful silver light; it seems to reach in between the crevasses on all of the shelves, and under and behind every single piece of furniture in the room.

She opened her eyes, when the light didn't fade right away, and saw the same thing that he did:

A huge, silver-blue cloud hung in the middle of the room, shifting and rolling; at first glance, it was a classic non-corporeal Patronus. But then, near the top, he saw the cloud begin to knit together — he saw, suddenly and clearly, the outline what was unmistakably a wing, though precisely what manner of bird it belonged to, it was gone before he could say.

The cloud shifted again, and this time — Severus felt his throat tighten, and his fingers, as well. A slim, hooved leg;  _No_ , he found himself wishing, inexplicably,  _Not that_ ;  _she's mine_.

Still; despite his protest, he couldn't shift his eyes. He found himself willing the rest of the familiar form to appear, but like the wing, it dissolved before it fully formed, and at last, the cloud faded away, leaving the room seeming even darker than it had before. The sunlight that had streamed through the window and lit his daughter's profile had gone, though he couldn't remember when.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

On the day that Gerald was supposed to meet with his father and the Muggle solicitor, Severus insisted on accompanying them to the Apparition point in Manchester that was closest to the solicitor's office, despite the fact that Gerald had come to Cokeworth first to meet Calista, and despite the fact that both of them were perfectly capable of Apparating themselves.

Although, admittedly, when Severus waspishly pointed out that Gerald looked in no state to do so, Calista had to agree; his eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was pulled down in a frown. He looked so tired that he might have been physically ill, and it was such a stark difference from the way she'd seen him only a few days ago, that she found herself growing increasingly nervous, too.

"He's right," Calista murmured, when her father had gone out of earshot, to fetch his cloak, "You look exhausted; you shouldn't even have Apparated  _here_. We could have met you…"

"I'm all right," Gerald said, and Calista quirked a brow.

"I don't believe that any more than you believe  _me_  whenever I say I'm fine."

"Very well," Gerald admitted, inclining his head slightly, "Perhaps I'm not all right; but I will be, I hope, once this is finally behind me."

"Just don't sign anything until I can tell you what —" Calista started, and Gerald nodded, quickly.

"I know," he said hurriedly, and then, "I'm sorry, I just need... can we talk about something else, for a minute? I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Calista reached for his hand and squeezed it, reassuringly; then, for good measure, she lifted her other hand to his shoulder, and he managed a weak, fleeting smile at the familiar gesture.

"Are we ready to leave?" Severus asked quietly, from the doorway; Gerald nodded, grimly, and Calista lifted her hand off his shoulder but kept her other hand firmly wrapped around his.

They couldn't Apparate from within the house; like many wizarding homes, the protective charms surrounding it interfered, so instead, they walked to the same Apparition point, along the river, that Gerald had undoubtedly used to get there that morning.

"I've been reading a few of the books you sent," Calista ventured, trailing a couple of steps behind her father, but ensuring they kept pace; it felt rather like she was tugging Gerald along, as if his legs were protesting despite the grim determination that had settled into his features.

"What do you think, so far?" he asked, glancing over at her; she thought he looked relieved to change the subject, even to something arguably just as dismal.

"I don't know," she admitted, "It's still difficult to get used to, the idea that… I don't know, that the nightmares and things are… I don't know, that it's not just  _me_."

Gerald nodded, sympathetically. "It's normal," he supplied, gently, "At least, as normal as anything can be, after having gone through the sorts of things you've had to."

Calista frowned. "I suppose that's what I find sort of disconcerting about it," she admitted, "I think I always hoped that some day, all of these…  _things_  would go away; and if they were just  _me_ , being a bloody psycho like Olivia always says — maybe they _would_ go away. Not now, though; not if they're… well, not if they're  _symptoms_."

"Sweetheart," Gerald murmured, and this time he was the one squeezing her hand, "You're not a — a  _pyscho_. There's  _nothing_  wrong with you. Olivia's a… well, she's a…"

"Bitch?" Calista supplied helpfully, and Gerald flushed slightly, and nodded.

"I don't like using that word," Gerald admitted, "But yes, I'll agree it seems fitting, in this case."

"I think I've only ever heard you swear once before," Calista said, reflecting briefly.

"I do, sometimes," Gerald said, "But — not really to  _call_  someone something. Especially not — " he frowned, and lowered his voice slightly. "Not a girl.  _He_ used to… he called my mother things, and I…"

He shook his head, and Calista squeezed his hand.

"I won't do that," he finished, quietly.

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, crossing the river. As they climbed the slope of the far bank, Gerald spoke up again.

"It probably sounds strange, but  _that_ — him calling her names — always made me so angry; even more, I think, than when he did things to  _me_. I guess… I guess I hated to see the look she'd get, when he said something awful. It wasn't even hurt, exactly… it was almost resignation, like she thought it was true, like she thought it was something she deserved to hear."

Severus spoke, abruptly, as they approached the mouth of a small, disused alley: "Small, non-lethal doses of the same poison, over and over again — surely you both know, from your studies, how that affects someone?"

Calista blinked. She hadn't realised he'd been listening, though she supposed she ought to have known better.

"Yes," Calista said, when Gerald didn't, "It wears down the subject's resistance. It weakens them."

"Correct." Severus drew his wand, and out of a sense of habit, Calista reached for him, hooking her fingers around his elbow; her other was still connected to Gerald, and that alone should have been enough to safely Apparate all three of them; still, Severus paused, lifting his free hand to hover over Gerald's shoulder. He paused, for a second, and Gerald swallowed, and nodded. Severus' hand came down, lightly then, settling onto his shoulder. If Gerald flinched, it was too slight for Calista to pick up on it.

"At least," Severus said, something like an afterthought, "That's the typical reaction; very few manage to build a resistance, instead."

Calista opened her mouth, but then suddenly he had cast the incantation, and her teeth were forced together, against the tugging, slightly nauseous feeling that always came along with side-along Apparition.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Gerald had scoped the solicitor's office out ahead of time and realised there was no way Calista could hide there, so he'd suggested a busy, dingy-looking restaurant about a block away from it as a meeting place.

Their plan was to arrive half an hour before the agreed meeting time, so Calista could choose a good observation spot, away from where Gerald would be waiting for his father and the solicitor to arrive.

As soon as Severus had seen the spot they were meeting, and noted its coordinates, he'd headed down the street in the opposite direction; he was going to stay nearby, and return for them in an hour or so, when the meeting was supposed to be over, though he'd reminded Calista to call for him if they needed him before that. Gerald hadn't asked what he meant by that, but Calista supposed he could guess, now that he knew that she was a legilimens and that he was the one who had taught her.

There was a line from the counter all the way to the door of the little shop, when they arrived; Calista worried that they wouldn't be able to find a spot to sit, or a spot for her to observe from, but it appeared that most of the people were ordering food from the counter and carrying it out. Once they'd gone inside, they could see a handful of free tables, though the best one for observing was still littered with the remnants of someone else's lunch. Calista started to head over that way, anyway, attempting to slip through the tightly clustered line at the counter when Gerald suddenly started, beside her.

"Go outside," he said, quickly and forcefully, and she didn't even have time to ask why before the crowd around her shifted, and suddenly, two men had left the line, and were looking down at them — or, more precisely, at Gerald.

"Your son, eh? The older one?" the portlier of the two men said, bushy eyebrows raised. He had a low, rumbling sort of voice, and was dressed in a cheap, shabby-looking Muggle suit. Calista glimpsed a tattered briefcase in his hand, before her eyes went to the other man, the taller one.

"Yes, this is my Gerry," the man said; he was much older than Calista had expected, tall and lanky with wispy, greying hair and prominent wrinkles. His eyes, though they were brown and framed by a pair of spectacles like Gerry's, looked worn and sharp and sunken and held none of the warmth that his son's did.

"And this," the man said, and his eyes darted now to Calista, mouth spreading into a grin that made her instantly uncomfortable; behind the grizzly stubble at his chin, his teeth were in surprisingly better shape than the rest of his appearance would have led her to believe; she thought his smile was positively wolfish, and for some reason, that made her want to stand up straighter, and taller. " _This_  must be his girlfriend, the Professor's daughter."

Gerald flinched, and Calista saw his eyes go wide and round with panic.

"Oh, yes," his father said, "I know  _all_  about her, even though you didn't tell me anything. Wanted to surprise me, eh?"

"Go outside," Gerald said again, weakly; the look he cast her, suddenly, was pleading, and she knew what the plan had been, knew what she'd agreed to do…

But the plan hadn't accounted for  _this_ ; they were supposed to arrive first, and Gerald's father wasn't supposed to know who she was. More importantly —

She reached for Gerald's hand, lacing her fingers through his. She wasn't going to leave him now, when the vision from her dream was suddenly replaying itself in her head; she saw him cowering, even though here, in flesh and blood, he was doing his very best not to, and she slid closer to him, willing him to keep his shoulders squared, his head high.

"Come, let's find a seat," the shorter, squatter man said, waving towards an empty table in the corner, large enough for four to sit, "Lots of business to get to, and I have another appointment at one."

"She — she's leaving," Gerald stammered, "She can't stay —"

"Nonsense," his father's wolfish grin was back, "That would be rude. Come, young lady, surely you can stay for a bit of a chat, eh?"

"Please," Gerald murmured, leaning over, by her ear; though she noticed that his fingers tightened around hers, rather than letting go, "The… Calista, the plan…"

She squeezed his hand, and turned her head slightly, though she kept one eye warily on the two men, who had gone slightly ahead of them to pull the chairs out from the chosen table.

"The plan's changed," she said, quietly, "I'm not leaving you."

She expected him to argue, again, but instead, he squeezed her hand back. Perhaps it was the promise of her father's presence, not terribly far away, perhaps it was only that he was far more afraid than he'd initially let on, but Gerald nodded, and they went to the table.

Gerald's father was gesturing towards the two inside chairs, sandwiched between the table and the dingy wall, inviting her and Gerald to sit there; Gerald started to move, but Calista narrowed her eyes.

"I don't think so," she said, curtly, " _You_ two can sit there, against the wall. We'll take the outside."

Gerald's father chuckled, and the grin was levelled directly at her, now. "Bold little thing, aren't you? Hasn't anyone ever told you to respect your elders?"

"Oh, plenty of times," she said, controlling her own nerves for Gerald's sake, and forcing her words to come out as evenly as she could, "But in my experience, if someone needs to ask for respect, they probably don't deserve it."

Gerald tensed beside her, as his father moved, but he was only rounding the table, taking the chairs that Calista had directed him to — or at least, that's what she'd thought, until he paused, right in front of them.

His eyes travelled her up and down, and there was something about it that made her skin crawl; it reminded her, suddenly, of her Uncle Lucius' attempts at legilimency only this look made her body feel violated rather than her mind.

"Well — I guess a minor accommodation for a pretty young lady, even a rude one, isn't so difficult to make, eh?"

Gerald shifted, stepping in front of Calista, even though it put him nearly toe-to-toe with his father; his father chuckled, and then, after a minute, he slipped by, and took the chair furthest into the corner, against the wall.

"Oh, don't worry, my boy," he said, with an air of great amusement. He waved his hand, and his companion sat down beside him, so it was just Calista and Gerald who remained standing now, "I like my women young, it's true, but not  _that_ young; you've nothing to fear, I'm only being…  _considerate_."

Calista privately thought it was a miracle if this man could manage to attract any sort of woman at all; it wasn't just that he did look so much older than she'd expected, nearing sixty at least, but it was  _also_  the sour, vaguely metallic smell that lingered around him, and the fact that his overall manner made her skin crawl and her nose curl up in distaste; but then, maybe that was because she already knew what sort of man he was.

Gerald started to take the seat across from his father, but Calista squeezed his hand, and he glanced at her. His expression now was unreadable, and she felt a surge of pride towards him for that; she knew how difficult it must be for him to keep it that way, just now.

"Let me," she murmured, "It will make it easier…"

He swallowed, and nodded, and then he pulled the chair out for her, and once she'd sat, took the one beside her, across from his father's companion.

"Now then," his father said, once they'd all been seated; he spoke up, to be heard over the din of the busy lunchtime crowd around them, the buzzing voices, crinkling wrappers, and the scraping of chairs over the cracked flooring, "I believe proper introductions are in order — this fellow here is my good friend, Harold Noonan, and he's been handling my legal affairs for quite some time."

"Settling your gambling debts, you mean," Gerald muttered, darkly; his father showed his teeth again, but it was certainly not a grin, this time.

"Watch it, boy," he growled, a low, quiet threat. Beside him, Harold looked slightly uncomfortable, and his father's expression reluctantly smoothed, and he forced himself to go on, shifting his gaze to Calista. "So — continuing introductions. I'm Gerry's father, Brandon Boot — I'd be willing to wager you've heard a lot about me, eh?"

Calista cleared her throat. "From what I've heard, you'd be willing to wager on almost anything," she said, "But yes, in this case, it's true. I've heard an —" she stressed the word, pointedly, " _awful_  lot."

"Isn't that funny," Brandon mused, playing at good-natured, but not doing a very good job of it, "I've heard a lot about you, too — Calista, is it? — but none of it from Gerry, here. It's almost like he thought I might not approve."

He fixed her with a look that said precisely that; she could feel Gerald tense, again, beside her, but Calista met Brandon's gaze, steadily. Beneath the edge of the table, she started to draw runic forms with her fingers.

_Recludo._

"Where did you hear about me from, then?" she asked, forcing a casual tone, "Or, should I say,  _whom_  did you hear about me from, if it wasn't Gerald?"

If the first rune had opened a window in her father's mind, here it sprung a set of doors wide open; or rather, it lifted a broad, flimsy curtain aside. She could feel his thoughts rushing by, twisting and chaotic, and she struggled to latch onto one —  _any_ one — in particular.

 _Paellegus._ The memories organised, into a sequence of sorts. She still didn't know quite which one to latch onto; that was the reason for her line of questioning. Hopefully, with any luck, he'd reveal to her the place she ought to look.

"My brother, Wesley," he said, quickly, with a glance towards his son, "You remember your uncle, don't you, Gerry? Chadwick's old man?"

"Uncle Wesley," Gerald said, dubiously, "He wrote to you about Calista?"

"We've been back in touch," his father said, nodding, and Calista could see the lie in his eyes; and then, one of his memories  _pulsed_ , as if betraying the lie. She reached for it, with a tendril of her own mind.

_Intellego._

_~ a dirty, dust-smeared window, over a dripping faucet. Chipped dishes filling the sink below, some with easily a week's worth of grime. The counter beside is littered with slips of paper covered with marks and numbers; some have dollar amounts, some appear to be scores. He looks up, out the window, and yes, there it is — he smudges a patch clear on the glass, and then gives up and just tugs the window open. It sticks halfway, but finally he manages, and by now the shape he's been watching for is close enough to make out properly. An owl, gleaming and snowy-white; as it drops in through the window, parchment tied to its leg, it looks absurdly out of place against the crusted dishes and the litter-strewn counter. ~_

_Shit._  Calista felt a heavy, sinking feeling in her gut, as she recognised the owl, realised that Gerald's worst fear had already been coming true, for gods knew how long.

"Uncle Wesley's never even met Calista," Gerald said. Brandon smirked.

Calista could see the curtain beginning to materialise again, and she'd learned her lesson by now.

 _Recludo._  She traced the pattern, and his thoughts were unguarded again, at least to her.

"Well, his son has, hasn't he?"

_Paellegus. Intellego._

_~ A sheet of parchment; a weathered hand writes in an unexpectedly graceful hand -_ Calista started; the handwriting in this vision was jarringly similar to Gerald's, though she was familiar enough with his to recognise small differences.  _\- The rest of the family still won't write to me,_ the parchment says,  _I have no doubt they are the ones poisoning your brother against me, as well. Old childhood grudges, my boy, but you're too clever to fall for that. I hope you like the owl that carried this to you, by the way — he's yours, this moment on. Think of it as fourteen years' worth of missed birthday presents. Just don't let on to your brother, I reckon he'd be jealous given that half-dead old thing he sends his letters with ~_

Gerald and his father were still talking, but Calista missed most of it, concentrating on following the tapestry of Brandon Boot's memories. Revealing them, reading them, even staying undetected — those, curiously, were not the difficult parts. The difficult part was in knowing which of countless memories to examine. She hoped Gerald could continue to steer the conversation the right way, because it was difficult for her to speak, to follow it, while maintaining her efforts and the runic patterns.

She realised, a few seconds too late, that both men across the table were staring at her; they must have asked her something.

"Well, well," Brandon said, with a twisted sort of smirk, "Maybe you should worry after all, Gerry, my boy — looks like your girl's taking quite a shine to me. Not saying a word, but can't keep her eyes off me, eh?"

She felt Gerald's eyes shift towards her, but she couldn't break eye contact with his father, couldn't stop tracing the runic patterns — she'd learned the hard way several times over how agonising and exhausting it was to withdraw, suddenly, when practising legilimency in this manner. She had to keep the connection open, or she'd be hit with a headache ferocious enough to render her practically useless. Already, she could feel herself growing weary, though she thought she had decent chances of extracting a few more memories as long as she could maintain the connection.

"I'm just — " Calista managed, tracing the runes.  _Recludo._ "Just wondering when you'll get to the point, of why you've asked Gerald to come here."

Brandon smirked. "Oh, I don't know if I believe that's all you were wondering. Think I might be onto something, eh, love? I've always had my way with the ladies, you know —  _especially_  the younger ones. They like someone who'll tell 'em what's what, I think."

Gerald shot forward in his chair, and said something to his father — Calista twisted, slightly, so she cold still see around him. She didn't care  _what_  his father thought of her, she only cared whether she could get anything useful out of him.

She snorted.  _Paellegus._ "You keep telling yourself that," she said, and with her free hand she tapped lightly at Gerald's elbow, catching his attention; he glanced down at her, and then —  _ah_. He saw her other hand, under the table, tracing the rune pattern.  _Intellego._

She saw his eyes flicker briefly — with understanding, she hoped — and then he settled slowly back into his seat. He'd never seen her work this particular spell, wandlessly or otherwise, but he'd seen her use her wandless Freezing Charm often enough that she hoped he got the message, hoped he realised that she  _needed_  him not to block her view of his father.

"If we  _could_  get to the point, actually, gentlemen…" Harold Noonan said, lifting his briefcase and setting it down on the table; Brandon Boot's eyes flicked, briefly to it, and the curtain began to close again —

 _Recludo_ , she traced, and, hurriedly: "Yes, do tell us why we're here,  _Mr. Boot_."

It worked; her emphasis of his name drew his eyes back to hers.

"Well, actually, young lady, I suppose I don't know why  _you're_  here at all, since it seems my son isn't particularly pleased that you are —"

"What I'm displeased with is you leering at her like she's on the menu," Gerald snapped, with an uncharacteristic chill in his voice, "Leave her alone."

His father grinned; he seemed quite pleased with himself that he'd managed to get under his son's skin. "How old is she, Gerry? Sixteen, seventeen?"

"None of your business," Gerald said, tersely. "Just hand over the papers you want me to sign, so we can be on our way."

"Not much younger than your mother was when I met her," Brandon went on, conversationally. "Eighteen, when we met. Nineteen, when we had you."

_Paellegus._

He said something else, but Calista had seen the pulse of another memory; she slipped a tendril of her own consciousness towards it, surreptitiously.

_Intellego._

_~ 'It's sooner than we planned, sure,' he said, peering over her shoulder as she signed the document; a bored-looking woman behind the desk they stood in front of sighed, and pointed out the proper line. 'But we did want to get married, didn't we, Tina?'_

_Gerald's mother — looking much younger, and small and frail despite the swell of her belly that could be seen, easily from this vantage point — nodded, and her hand moved to the indicated line, signing it._

' _Yes,' she said, 'I… Brandon, it's good of you to take care of me like this —"_

' _Of course, love, of course,' he said, over he shoulder, and then he pointed to a second page. 'Sign here, too,' he said, 'To make it all official, of course'._

_She nodded, and he covered the title of the page neatly, under the guise of holding it steady for her to sign — 'Forfeiture of assets' it said, in flash, before his fingers were over most of the letters ~_

"Exaggerations, and outright lies," Brandon was saying dismissively, "Fed to you by that shrew of a mother of yours, I expect — never understood why she couldn't keep her grudge with me to herself, never saw why she had to drag you two boys into it —"

" _I_ was the one that filed the —" Gerald started, and then he glanced at the other man, the supposed Muggle. "The paperwork," he finished, "To have you stay away. It wasn't Mum; it was me."

"Oh, I remember. Blasted woman put you up to it, I expect — "

"No," Gerald said firmly, "She didn't."

The curtain was drifting in again, like a wispy cloud scudding lazily across the sky.

 _Recludo._ It cleared, and the stream of memories continued to flow by.

"Yes, well," Brandon said, "Isn't it well that we've put that all behind us, my boy? We write so often now, it's  _undeniable_ that we've grown closer, eh? If only we could be a real  _family_  again —"

 _Paellegus._  A memory pulsed. Gerald said something, undoubtedly retorting that he only wrote to his father often because it was demanded of him, but Calista latched onto the memory, and didn't hear what he said.

_Intellego._

_~ 'This is absurd,' he growled, leering down at the goblin seated at the ornate desk. 'This is false, this is a lie — this is_ theft _!" He slammed his fist down on the desk, and it was a younger fist, free of wrinkles, though undeniably the fist of an adult male._

_The goblin stared back, balefully. 'The documents are clear,' he said, with a crisp sort of satisfaction, 'You are barred from the Boot family vaults. Perhaps you can take it up with your kin, but I cannot help you further.' ~_

"Yes, yes, you can continue your visit after our business is attended to, of course," the pudgier man, Mr. Noonan, was saying, as he flipped the top of his briefcase open, "But I do have another appointment coming up, and I really must be back to my office."

"Of course, Harold, of course," Brandon said smoothly; again, he looked away, at Mr. Noonan's hands as he drew a sheaf of papers from the briefcase, and set them down on the table.

 _Recludo_. Calista traced the rune, several times in a row, holding the curtain aside — she could manage that, at least, but she wouldn't be able to read any more of his thoughts until she could get a clear look at his eyes again.

"These are — these are my letters," Gerald said, snatching one of them up, "All the letters I wrote to you —"

"Well," Brandon interjected, with a pointed glance towards his companion, Mr. Noonan, "All the letters that are fit for  _present company_  —"

"You showed him my letters?" Gerald asked, incredulously.

"Only the  _appropriate_  ones," Brandon said again, "Nothing about — about your  _school_ , or anything like that."

"I assure you, I haven't read them," Mr. Noonan said, with a small chuckle. "They're here for your benefit, actually — it's best if you look them over first, make certain everything is in order. Got to dot my i's and cross my t's, you know."

Gerald shifted through the stack of papers, briefly. "I don't understand," he said, "Why have you brought my letters?"

Brandon Boot still wasn't giving her a clear enough shot; his eyes were downcast, looking at the letters.  _Recludo_ , she traced again, and again, keeping the man's mental curtain drawn.

Mr. Noonan slid another sheet to the top of the pile. "So you'll be able to confirm  _this_  is accurate," he said, and he flicked a curious glance towards Calista. "I say, young lady, are you quite all right? I'd swear you haven't blinked since we sat down."

"I'm fine," she managed, through gritted teeth;  _ah,_  at last, Brandon glanced towards her, too.

 _Paellegus_ , she traced. The contents of his mind arranged themselves into pockets of memory, once more, that she could view, if she knew which one to aim for.

"I don't understand," Gerald said, "This is just — this just asks me to affirm that these are my letters…"

Mr. Noonan nodded. "Yes, yes; it's all very simple. Your letters, written in your own hand, of your own free will — you don't even need to affirm that the contents are true, just that you wrote them. Easy, isn't it?"

Brandon smirked, and shifted his gaze up to Gerald's face; it wasn't a direct stare in her direction, but it was close enough. She could see his eyes, and she was running out of stamina, and out of time. Sustained legilimency was draining;  _wandless_ sustained legilimency was something like running a mental marathon — and she was running this one with her fingers, too.

Instead of reaching for a memory, this time she tried to insert herself into the forefront of his mind, to see is thoughts as they streamed past, in real-time.

_Intellego._

_~ Go on, boy, sign ~_

She could feel the roil of motive, something dark and greedy, but she couldn't quite  _find_  it.

"Why?" she asked, sharply, "Why do you want Gerald to sign that?"

Brandon curled his lip in her direction.

_Intellego._

_~ Dozens of friendly letters, all about his friends and family — doesn't seem like something an abused child would do, now, does it? ~_

"You've really got to learn respect, young lady. Gerry, boy, you should never let a woman speak to you like that — gives them  _ideas_."

Gerald leaned forward again, but Calista squirmed around him.

"Oh, I'm having all  _sorts_ of ideas," she snarled, levelling her best Snape glare, "And I don't think you'd be particularly fond of any of them."

"Calista…" Gerald murmured, reaching for her free hand, "Don't listen to him — it's all right…"

"Ask him," she insisted, still through her teeth, "Ask him why he wants you to sign it." She recalled the other paper, the one she'd seen in a flash, and she wanted to inspect the one that Mr. Noonan had slipped atop the pile, but she'd risk losing the connection if she did. She had to trust Gerald's eyes to see whatever else was on the paper. "Ask him if there's — anything  _else_  you're really signing…"

 _Recludo_ , she traced,  _Paellegus._

"What am I really signing, here?" Gerald asked, quietly; she saw him lift the paper, saw the trembling from his fingers travel its way through the thin sheet; her heart ached to reassure him, but she had to  _concentrate_.

"When have I ever lied to you, boy?"

Gerald laughed hollowly. "We don't have enough time for me to answer that."

"It's not a trick," Brandon snapped, impatiently, "Read it yourself. Mr. Noonan just wants to confirm that those are letters you sent me."

 _Intellego._ Calista sent several tendrils of thought now, seeking anything at all that related to the papers on the table. It was difficult; she could feel her mind, moving as though it were underwater. She was exhausted; her fingers itched to reach for her wand, to make this easier, but she  _couldn't_ , not in this blasted noisy restaurant full of Muggles, not without breaking the Statute of Secrecy and getting herself — and possibly Gerald — arrested.

 _~ Go on, you sanctimonious little shit, sign, and I'll be done with you and your cunty little girlfriend — be glad to see the back of_ her _, for more reasons than one ~_

Calista felt a wave of repulsion hit her, as a mixture of disdain and some other angry, predatory feeling rolled off Brandon's mind. It was like a twisted impersonation of desire, like nothing she had ever encountered before. If she had to name the closest thing she'd ever felt, it reminded her of the way her mother's' eye had lit up, when she'd tortured Muggles — except this was even more unsettling, because there was an undeniable sexual element to it, as well.

 _~ Skinny thing, not even much to look at, ~_ she heard him muse,  _~ but damn if it wouldn't get under Gerry's skin, if I nabbed a handful on the way by; might help teach the little bitch her place, besides ~_

That wasn't what she needed; she felt the pull of her weary mind calling the rest of itself back, not least of all to get away from that horrible emotion, but she hadn't found out  _what he was after_  yet. She set her jaw, and forced herself to keep searching his mind, though not without wondering how much longer it would be before her father came this way, looking for them.

 _~ This will be the last thing I need, now I've got Terry's letter ~_ Calista seized on that thread of thought, followed it doggedly.  _~ Should be enough to make the case that their bitch mother's acting out of spite; Harold can do whatever he needs to with these blasted Muggle courts ~_

The curtain was drawing closed again, but she was  _right there_ ; she had to keep going, or risk losing this thread somewhere in the tangle of his mind -

_Intellego._

~  _won't do anything in the proper courts, but it won't matter, once it's all on file. Just want the vault access again, don't really want the boy — wouldn't mind showing_ this _one the right end of my wand once or twice though for all his fucking lip — old time's sake ~_

Gerald and his father were still talking, and the curtain was filling in, a filmy sort of barrier; she could still make out his thoughts, but it was as if a tide was washing over them, partially obscuring them — she leaned forward, ignoring the rising pressure in her temples, and hurriedly starting the sequence again.

 _Recludo_. The curtain lifted, again, but she could feel that it was sluggish, this time; she was tired.

 _Paellego._  She hoped she could  _find_  the right place to look again… as the streams of his mind separated into distinct memories, once more she ignored them, and placed her seeking tendrils at the forefront of his thoughts.

_Intellego._

_~ soon as Harold… in order… ~_ Calista struggled to focus, as the thought seemed determined to snake away; or rather, she was not quite quick enough to follow it well. She was tired; gods, if  _only_  she could use her wand. She couldn't, though, so she simply concentrated as well as she could.

_~ checked it all out… both still on the vault list … only need one… Terry… easier than I thought… file the paperwork… Section one hundred … ty-seven ~_

"Fine," Gerald said, gripping the proffered pen; his hands were still shaking, "I'll sign, and then you'll leave me  _alone_  — leave Terry alone —"

"No," Calista snapped, making a grab for the paper; her fingers missed, but she did manage to knock the pen askew, in his grip. "Don't."

She had to concentrate on withdrawing properly from Brandon's mind, because she knew how much pain she was in for if she didn't; she'd judged that been connected to his mind for the better part of an hour.

"He's not — Gerald's not signing  _anything_ ," she managed, and she reached clumsily for his hand; he seemed to sense that something was wrong, and he twined his fingers between hers, eying her with concern.

She couldn't look at him for several seconds, couldn't focus on  _anything_  except doing this right; she withdrew, one tendril at a time, slowly and carefully back into her own mind. Once, she had to cast the first rune again, to give herself a few more seconds to withdraw.

Brandon was yelling something now, and Gerald drew back, slightly; Calista 's nerves urged her to hurry this up, but she knew she couldn't; she forced herself to take every second that she needed; she had to remind herself that things would be even more difficult for Gerald if she were rendered useless by an excruciating headache.

At last, she felt the satisfying, light  _snap_  of her mind returning to and settling into its proper place. She shivered, and then she squeezed Gerald's hand, and stood up.

"We're leaving," she said, trying to raise her voice above Brandon's; she had no idea if it was successful or not, but Gerald stood up too, and they scrambled away from the table.

"Now, really," Mr. Noonan said, bristling with irritation, "We're making a scene, and this has been quite a waste of my valuable time — I'm still charging you, Brandon, you know —"

"He'll sign," Brandon growled, and he stood, too. Gerald was tugging her gently along, or she was tugging him — it was difficult to tell, anymore, which of them wanted to be gone the most.

"Calista," Gerald said, anxiously, when they were outside, "What happened? Are you all right?"

"Where do you think you're going, boy? You  _listen,_ when I tell you to do something —"

Calista felt a jerk, as Brandon's hand snagged harshly around Gerald's arm, tugging him roughly away. Gerald yelped and winced, and suddenly,  _instantly_ , Calista felt something she hadn't in months: the familiar, pulsing tide of rage, pushing at her skin, making it tremble ominously — she snaked her free hand towards her pocket, reaching for her wand —

"Unless you wish to suffer the most  _extreme_ consequences," a beautifully familiar voice hissed, suddenly, managing to cut over the din despite its relative softness, "I suggest you unhand that boy, immediately."

"Now, see here —" Brandon started, and then his eyes swung up to meet the man who had spoken, the man who stood on the sidewalk in black trousers and an overlong cloak that managed to look as close to wizarding robes as Muggle garb could, and who seemed to tower over all of them, despite actually being a good bit shorter than Brandon Boot.

Brandon's hand lifted as if he'd been burned, releasing Gerald, and he took a step back, stumbling into Mr. Noonan, who was exiting the shop, still struggling with the latch on his case.

"This is — this is my  _son_ ," Brandon mumbled, and it was plain to Calista that he was afraid of Severus: and no wonder; she could see the last few inches of his wand poking through the end of his right sleeve, directly at the elder Boot. She couldn't imagine how her father had managed to get a spell off without being noticed, but judging by the way Brandon was rubbing his reddening, swelling hands together, he certainly had.

"Oh, I'm aware of that," her father said, with a frighteningly deceptive ease, "I'm aware of an  _awful_ lot."

It struck Calista that his phrasing was so close to the phrasing she'd used earlier that it was almost as if they'd planned it; she saw Brandon's gaze flicker uneasily towards her, and then back to her father as if he thought so, too.

"And since we're on introductions," Severus went on smoothly, and she felt his hand settled lightly on her shoulder, " _This_  is my daughter, and as you can imagine, I would be  _terribly_  upset if something were to happen to her, or to any of her…  _friends_."

He dipped his head slightly, indicating Gerald, who was still trying to position himself between Calista and his father, despite having just been roughly handled by the man.

Brandon's lip curled, and his eyes narrowed. "Never touched the little bitch —" he started, and then he winced, and doubled over in evident pain; again, it seemed, Severus had gotten a spell off without anyone even noticing.

"Good," Severus crooned, quietly; his face was as dangerous as Calista had ever seen it. "See that you don't; and you'll stay away from this boy and his brother, too, if you've even a shred of intelligence to your name."

Calista caught a blur of motion; it was Mr. Noonan, hurrying down the street away from the scene, his shoulders hunched. She felt a twinge of anxiety… if he'd seen anything, her father could be in trouble… but Severus looked unconcerned, at least in that regard.

"Do you — do you have any idea who you're threatening?" Brandon managed to snarl, but it didn't have his gusto from even a few moments prior.

"Oh, I think I have a very good measure of  _that_ ," Severus replied drily.

He held Brandon's gaze a second or two longer, and then, expression shifting abruptly into something unreadable, he swept his gaze over the pair of teenagers.

"Calista, Gerald? I assume we are finished here?"

Gerald first nodded, but then glanced questioningly to Calista. She nodded as well, emphatically, and took Gerald's hand again, the one that had been snatched out of hers when his father had grabbed him.

This time, on the walk back to the Apparition point, it was Severus who trailed the two of them, and though he kept his eyes forward, Calista had no doubt that the two of them, she and Gerald, were safe from Brandon Boot, at least for now.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista spent the walk back from the Apparition point in Cokeworth to their house trying to work out how to tell Gerald what she'd found out, but if there was a way to break the news easily, she couldn't come up with it.

"I assume you got what you needed?" Severus asked, as he unlocked the front door and tapped his wand to it, briefly releasing the charms on the house to let them all inside.

Calista nodded, feeling her stomach filling up with dread. This wasn't going to be easy… not least of all admitting that she'd missed the obvious for months, when it might have helped Gerald to know sooner.

"That — then that  _was_  legilimency you were doing?" Gerald asked, with an impressed sort of disbelief, "With runes — like your Freezing Charm?"

She nodded again, almost dismissively. Gods, this was not going to be easy…

"How does your head feel?" her father asked, quietly; Gerald looked puzzled.

"Fine," she said, "I withdrew correctly." she caught Gerald's expression and explained, haltingly, mainly because it bought her precious seconds before she had to explain everything  _else_.

"You have to — with legilimency, and for some reason,  _especially_  with my runic version — you have to be careful, leaving someone's mind. It's very jarring if you're forced out, or if you don't take your time; I've gotten truly  _awful_  headaches, from making mistakes before. That's why… if I seemed a little strange, just before we left the restaurant, that's… that's what I was doing."

"Oh," Gerald said, and for some reason he appeared slightly relieved. "I — that's good. I admit, I was concerned… perhaps something you saw, in his mind, had upset you…"

"Oh, there was plenty of  _that_ , too," she said, barely managing to suppress a shudder at the memory of the odd, twisted emotion that his father had directed, briefly, towards her. She didn't even know quite how to articulate what it had been like, and for some reason, the thought of trying to explain it to either Gerald  _or_  her father seemed impossibly uncomfortable.

"Calista, are you —" Gerald started, and she narrowed her eyes

"Please don't ask me if I'm all right. I'm a bit more worried about you, at the moment."

Severus crossed the room, taking a seat in his usual armchair, nestled in the corner amongst the bookshelves; he glanced toward the kitchen doorway, either inviting or expecting them to go in there for some measure of privacy, but instead, Gerald dropped down onto the sofa, and Calista followed suit beside him.

"I'm all right," Gerald said, hollowly, "At least, I hope I will be, once you tell me what you found out; I take it the contract  _was_  a trap, since you wouldn't let me sign it, but — I scanned it, for magic, and I didn't feel any…"

"Did you take it with you?" Severus asked, hopefully, but Gerald shook his head.

"No, I — I'm afraid I dropped it, sir."

"I don't think it matters," Calista said, grimly, "It's not the contract itself that's the problem. It's… it's everything  _else_ …"

She reached for Gerald's hand, the one closest to her, with both of her own.

"Gerald, I… there's no easy way to tell you this, but… I'm afraid your father's already been writing to Terry."

Gerald started, and paled. "No," he said, "He can't be — is there any chance you've got that wrong? Maybe he's  _planning_ on it, but he hasn't yet…?"

He didn't believe that; she could see that he didn't believe that, but his expression was pleading with her to  _make_ him believe that; still, she knew that, like her, he would ultimately want the truth, even if it was the most difficult thing to hear.

"It's true," she said, heavily, "I saw that very clearly. His owl…"

"Terry doesn't have an owl."

"Yes, he does," Calista said, miserably, "I've  _seen_ it; a great snowy owl. I've seen him sending letters with it, only… only never to you, it occurs to me now… he always asks to borrow mine for that, and I never put it together, but I  _should_  have… he's got an owl, and it was your father who gave it to him."

Gerald's face was positively drawn, now; she could feel his fingers trembling between hers and she gripped his hand a little tighter, though as far as she could tell it did nothing to steady him.

"When?" he managed.

"I'm not sure exactly," she admitted, "Sometime… sometime between September and when I sent you the Hogsmeade schedules."

"All year," Gerald swallowed. " _Shit_  — I've got to go  _warn_  him, I've got to —" he rose, visibly panicking; and then, guiltily, he realised what he'd said, and he darted a glance towards Severus, in the corner, who was listening quietly. "I — sorry for the language, sir," he said, and it was so  _Gerald_ , even in that moment, that Calista felt it tug on her heart.

He was pulling his hand free, as she had done so many times, and this time it was she who held fast. She had to make him stay, had to deliver the entirety of her news, even though it was wretched.

"Under the circumstances, I'm willing to overlook it," Severus said, neutrally, and then:

"Calista, what does the boy's owl have to do with Gerald's letters?"

Gerald stopped trying to pull away then, and looked at her expectantly; she shot her father a brief, grateful look, and then she pulled Gerald back down, gently, to sit beside her. He obliged, reluctantly, though she could see that he still itched to go to his brother.

"I didn't see much about his letters to Terry," she admitted, "But from what I did see — he's still early on in  _that_  part of his game, trying to get on his good side, make him think he's changed, all the sorts of things he tried to get  _you_  to believe, once. I saw other things, though..."

She exhaled, collecting her thoughts, organising the sequence of memories she'd seen.

"He's looking for money," she said, "That's — that's the main thing I got, he's  _always_  looking for money. He…stole some from your mother, a long time ago," she glossed over that quickly, because she didn't want to tell him exactly what she thought she'd seen, didn't want him to know that his own conception might have been part of one of his father's ploys; gods knew  _she_  knew how awful that feeling, that knowledge, was to live with. "And he's — I saw a memory, where he was being told that he'd been cut off, from accessing the Boot family vaults at Gringott's."

"I know," Gerald nodded, "We were disowned, he's told us that before."

"That's… well, I think that's just the thing," Calista said carefully, "It seems that  _he_  was, but… but you and Terry  _weren't_ ; or at least, that's definitely what your father appears to believe."

Gerald blinked, and stilled. "What?"

"He was thinking about the vault," she said, quietly, "And his thoughts were something like, 'they're  _both still on the vault list, only need one of them, Terry will be easier.'_ "

"But that's — no one's ever told me," he said, "Chadwick would have mentioned, surely — and if it were true, I'd  _give_  him whatever portion of what's in that vault is mine, if it would get him to leave us alone."

"Perhaps," Severus said, quietly, from his corner, "That's precisely why no one's ever told you." He shifted in his chair, to lean forward slightly. "I believe I did suggest the likelihood of a financial incentive, when Calista first explained this man's strange…  _demands_."

"But there  _wasn't_ one," Gerald said, disbelief still reflected in his brown eyes, so different from his father's for all that they were precisely the same shade, "No… no payments, or… anything."

"Well," Calista said, as gently as she could manage, "There is one now, or at the very least, he  _thinks_  there is one, and that's enough."

"So… so what, then? He's going to… to try and force Terry to get money for him? Then why have  _me_  write all those letters? Unless —" his eyes widened, "Oh no — did  _I_  somehow give him information about the vault, by writing about the family, like he asked?"

"I don't think so," Calista said, and she frowned. "He had a reason for them, but I'm not sure exactly how it's going to get him what he wants. He wants to use them as some sort of evidence, that you have a good relationship with him — I gather he had something similar from Terry — and he wanted you to sign that paper confirming you wrote them so he could use them to convince a court that whatever they  _already_ have on file isn't true."

Gerald looked horrified, and she went on, quickly: "The  _Muggle_  court, though, I'm nearly positive he was thinking of; that Noonan fellow really was a Muggle solicitor. That's… the the part I'm having trouble understanding even if there  _is_  something on file with the Muggle courts about your father — what's the point?"

"There isn't," Gerald said, "I figured he'd be able to get around whatever restrictions they might set, with magic, so I just went straight to the Obfuscation Office… I never filed anything in a Muggle court."

Calista frowned. "I'm nearly  _certain_  that's what he meant, though. There was something else, too, something about… about filing paperwork, and Section one hundred and  _something_ , but I didn't manage to get everything —"

"Section one hundred and eighty seven," Severus said, suddenly and grimly. "Of the Non-Magical Community Cooperation and Inclusion Act."

Calista blinked. " _What?_  I've never even  _heard_  of that."

"I've heard of it," Gerald said, "But I've never read it. It's…. It's rather dry, isn't it? About property lines, and making wizarding lots in Muggle neighborhoods unplottable, and things like that…?"

Severus stood, and began to pace.

"Most of it concerns things similar to that," Severus said, "But at the end, it deals with property disputes, between the magical world and the non-magical world." He flicked a glance at the sofa, where Calista still held Gerald's hand tightly in both of her own; Gerald's face was even paler, even more drawn than it had appeared when he'd arrived that morning.

"Section one hundred and eighty-seven," he said, "Is a provision, that if ownership of property is disputed or can't be determined in the wizarding world, the Wizengamot will accept legal, binding documentation of ownership in the Muggle world as valid proof of ownership."

Gerald exhaled. "But that doesn't — I mean, the vaults or whatever else — as far as I know, as far as I can imagine, that's all in the Wizarding world, there wouldn't  _be_  any documentation of that in any Muggle court."

Severus paused his pacing, directly in front of the sofa.

"I know about the provision," he said slowly, "Because I had to  _use_  it. This house was my father's, and when he and my mother vacated it, and I went to claim ownership, there was no proof it was mine in the wizarding world. My father was a Muggle, and he didn't trust the wizarding world; he insisted on keeping all of my parents' legal documents with Muggle record-keepers."

He frowned, grimly, and looked at Gerald. "I believe I am safe to assume that your parents' marriage was filed with Muggle courts?"

Gerald frowned. "I'm not certain, actually."

"It was," Calista said quietly, "I saw — part of a memory, when he was telling you about meeting her… they were talking about getting married, and they were signing something with those Muggle things, those pens, and the forms — they were more like book paper, than parchment. Isn't that what Muggles use?"

Gerald looked briefly like he might be ill; but then he seemed to think of something, and he recovered, slightly: "But my parents are  _divorced_ now, and my mother didn't — she didn't ask for, or receive, anything of his. She doesn't have any claim to anything from his side of the family now, if she ever even did."

"I think," Severus said quietly, "That she does."

When Gerald still looked puzzled, Severus glanced at Calista. "May I explain something to him, Calista, from the day that I took you home? I believe it will help, in this situation."

She nodded, uncertainly; what could  _her_  situation possibly have to do with this? Still, she had already told him about the orphanage; she had already told him practically  _everything_  that had the power to hurt her, and he had never showed the slightest inclination to use any of it in that way.

"Yes," she said, with slightly more confidence. "If it will help."

"The facility that Calista was being kept in," Severus explained, "Housed both magical and non-magical children. Part of the legal paperwork, before I could take her home, included two forms of guardianship papers; the wizarding forms, and the Muggle forms."

He paused, and pursed his lips slightly. "They knew she was a witch. The reason for the extra paperwork was  _because_  of Provision one hundred and eighty-seven; they send the latter forms to the proper record-keepers in the Muggle world, and they'll check their records to see if someone  _else_  already has legal custody of the child; it's designed to prevent a wizarding parent from, say, Confunding their Muggle spouse and kidnapping their child; it's meant to be a safeguard."

Calista felt Gerald's fingers start trembling again; she felt her heart sink, as she understood the implication, at last, of her father's words — of what she'd discovered.

"The — you said Section one hundred and eighty-seven was about  _property_ ," he managed, "It — it also applies to  _children_?"

"Strictly speaking, in the eyes of the law," Severus confirmed grimly, "Children  _are_  property, until they reach seventeen years of age."

"So… so Mum won custody of  _us_ ," Gerald said, with dawning horror, "And she  _still_  has custody of Terry — and if  _he_  can convince some — some Muggle judge who's never even met any of us that she came by that custody unfairly, he can — he can  _claim ownership of Terry_?"

"I'm inclined to believe that's his plan," Severus said, tone still grim. "And since Terry  _is_  still a minor, I imagine he intends to make the claim that he should retain control over Terry's financial assets, such as they may be."

"Oh,  _Merlin_ ," Calista whispered, "That's what he — that's what he was  _thinking_. ' _I just want the vault access, I don't really want the boy…'_  That's got to be it, that's got to be his plan."

Gerald swallowed. "I doubt he never wanted us; that's not really new. But it never stopped him from hurting us, just because we were around… there's got to be something I can do."

"There is," Calista said, "There's — there's something  _we_  can do — right, Dad?"

"Calista," Gerald protested weakly, "You don't have to — I don't want him to — I really shouldn't get you involved…"

"I'm already involved," she said, steadier than she felt, "And — and so is my dad…"

She looked up at him, for confirmation, and Severus nodded tightly.

"It appears that way," he said, quietly.

Gerald's tight frown wavered, and then melted; he let out a huge sigh, and his shoulders sagged, and briefly shook; she thought, for a moment, that he was sad, but when he looked up at her again, she saw that he was incredibly, immensely  _relieved_.

"All right," he said, quietly, "I — I — I can't tell you how much this means to me." Calista saw his pulse jump, briefly, at his throat. "What do I need to do, now?"

"I can think of two things that you should do, immediately," Severus said, "Firstly, you need to speak to your brother, and get him to put an end to his communications with this man; find out, if you can, what he's already said. Second, it would help if we knew precisely  _what_  records the Muggle courts already have, and whether or not your father has already begun some sort of suit. If you're named in any of that paperwork, you should be able to go the the records hall where it's stored and ask for a copy."

Gerald blinked. "I will, sir — but how do you  _know_ all of this?"

Severus smirked, grimly. "Didn't you hear what I said? Hasn't Calista told you? I'm a halfblood, too — and let's just say that I don't care for your father any more than I cared for mine."

Calista's jaw nearly dropped; had he really just all but admitted to Gerald the truth about his  _own_  father? He had scarcely even admitted as much to  _her_.

Gerald nodded, slowly. And then, reluctantly, he peeled Calista's hands off his own.

"I should go now," he said quietly, "And — and get started right away, on everything your father suggested."

Calista returned his nod, and stood up along with him.

"Fair enough," she said, "But I — Gerald, if it's all right,  _I_ have some suggestions, too."

"Of course it is," he said, and despite the urgency she could see dancing along his skin, and behind his eyes, he waited, eyes on her.

"Tell Terry the truth," she said, gently, " _All_  of it. Tell him —  _show_  him — what he did to you."

Gerald's jaw clenched, as if to prevent himself from being suddenly ill; she saw his pulse jump, again.

"And talk to your mother," Calista said, "She — she'll want to help you, I know she will. Maybe there's something she already knows, about whatever's in the Muggle records."

"I — I don't know," Gerald hedged, "I don't want — I've been trying to keep all of this, all of  _him_  from both of them; I want to protect them, as much as I can."

"I know you do, Gerald," Calista said, quietly. As if he sensed that a private moment was imminent, Severus quietly slipped out of the room, into the kitchen beyond.

"It's just that — and this is going to seem insane, coming from me, but it's true — I'm really beginning to doubt the virtue in keeping secrets for protection. At least, I'm doubting the virtue of keeping secrets from… from the people you love."

Gerald sucked in a breath. "Calista…"

She took a step towards him, and touched his cheek, lightly; she intended it as a reassuring gesture, but somehow it ended up feeling intimate, too.

"I'm just saying," she murmured, "It worked out well for me, being honest, even when I was afraid to."

" _Mon colibri_ ,  _ma rune de protection, je t'aime tellement_."

"I love you, too," she told him, the second time she had done so aloud; it slipped out even easier, this time. "Please tell us what you find out; and tell me if there's  _anything_  else I can do, to help you."

Gerald nodded, and then he reached up, mirroring the way she touched his cheek. His fingertips were as soft, as light, as always as they played along her cheekbone.

"There is one thing you could do, right now," he suggested, slightly uncertain.

"Anything," Calista promised.

" _Embrasse moi, pour le courage." Kiss me, for courage._

"For who?" she wondered, because she didn't feel like she really had very much of it, herself, "You, or I?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really," she admitted, and she leaned in, and kissed him; the funny thing was, when they broke apart, she  _did_  feel more courageous; and she could see, from the way he straightened his shoulders and the sudden determined glimmer in his eyes, that he did, too.


	19. Chapter 19

When Calista returned to school after the Easter break, the entire school was abuzz with rumours — and for once, they didn't have anything to do with her, no matter how insistently a certain few people seemed determined to  _make_  them about her.

"Come on," Amelia muttered, poking her shoulder while Professor Sinistra's back was turned, "He must've said  _something_ to you — thanks for your help, or something, at least?"

"You're certain he hasn't asked you out again?" Penny added in a whisper, and Calista rolled her eyes.

"I think I'd remember that."

"It's just —" Amelia started, but fell silent as Professor Sinistra approached, looking over their shoulders.

"It seems to me," the professor observed wryly, "You three are more likely to find constellations if you try  _looking_  through your telescopes; do I need to separate you?"

"No, Professor," the three girls said, in almost perfect unison; and then, once Professor Sinistra continued on and remarked on Percy's perfectly drawn star chart, their harmony was broken, when Calista and Amelia scowled, and Penny smiled.

Calista put her eye to her telescope, but was startled by a sudden murmur in her ear.

"It's just," Amelia said, "I'm pretty sure he still likes you, and okay,  _obviously_  he's fit and all, but you and Gerry are perfect, and if you break Gerry's heart for that pig-headed sack of Quaffles, I'll —"

" _Merlin's balls_!" Calista snapped in a whisper, starting away from her telescope. She snatched up her star chart, and gestured to a star seemingly at random.

"See this?" she whispered to Amelia, "This star? This is me, this is where I am, and I'm holding a list of all my problems and all the things I care about. And  _this_  —" she gestured off the far end of the page, " _This_  is Marcus and Hecate; somewhere over here, off the page. Notice they're not on my list at all; not even at the bottom. That's because  _I don't care_. Now if you'd just shut  _up_  and let me map Vulpecula —"

Amelia grinned.

"Merlin's balls," she murmured, "That's a new one. I like it."

"And anyway," Calista added, in a much calmer voice, "You're right about… about Gerald and I."

Amelia nodded, looking relieved. "Good," she said, "I'm glad you see that. For a while, you were being kind of —" she caught sight of Calista's warning expression and finished, "Well, anyway, it's a good call. Everyone knows Ravenclaws make the  _best_  lovers."

Percy tutted and turned pink, while Calista suppressed a blush with effort, and donned a scowl in its place. "Well, then why aren't  _you_  with one?" she challenged, returning to her telescope.

"Sometimes," Amelia stage-whispered, dramatically, "One has to make sacrifices for true love. I'm very noble and self-sacrificing, you know."

Calista snorted, and scribbled some notes on her chart.

There were a few moments of relative silence, broken only by the scrawling of several quills across parchment, and the mild squeak of Percy's telescope, swivelling back and forth.

When Professor Sinistra was at the other side of the tower, checking Emily Yaxley's chart, Calista leaned close to her friend, and spoke in a low whisper.

"I told him," she said, "I told Gerald…you know. And I let him tell me, too."

Amelia's brows shot up, and she grinned, again. " _Finally_. So, when are you going to shag him?"

"I — what — Amelia, that's —" Calista sputtered, and this time, the rising heat in her cheeks told her that she wasn't quite as successful in suppressing her blush, "Shut up."

Amelia's grin widened. "You're blushing," she said gleefully, even though Calista wasn't certain how she could tell, in the near-dark of the new moon, "You totally want to."

Calista hunched her shoulders. Her gut reaction was to vehemently deny it, but the truth was that even with everything else going on, even in the face of her concern over Gerald's current predicament, and all her own ghosts and uncertainties, there were  _other_  things that kept her awake, too; things that weren't nearly so unpleasant, though they could be agonising in their own right.

The memory of Gerald's fingers, grazing lightly across her collarbone, or around the edge of her ear, or — very recently, across a few slightly more intimate places — urged her imagination on, and she sucked in a breath, forcing herself to push all of that out of her mind, so she could concentrate on her star chart, and avoid having to stay up even later than the midnight class ended to take a cold shower.

Amelia was still grinning knowingly; if Calista had intended to deny her friend's observations, it was obviously too late now.

" _Shut up,"_  she settled for snarling, again.

This time, mercifully, her friend acquiesced.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

It was only Tuesday morning; Gerald had gone to work during the day Monday and was undoubtedly there again today. There hadn't really been enough time for him to have any news to share with her. Still, despite reminding herself of that logic over and over, Calista couldn't unravel the knot of fear in her gut, couldn't quite ignore the buzzing anxiety in her mind, though she found she could force it aside, with great effort.

"What about the third one?" Emily Yaxley's voice cut into her wandering thoughts; perhaps she wasn't compartmentalising her fear quite as efficiently as she believed. It had been easier, before this morning; before she'd anxiously watched all the owls streaming in through the windows of the Great Hall, not one of which had anything for her.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm ready to bottle the control," Emily said, gesturing to the row of empty bottles on their shared table, "And I can see your ingredients for the first two experimental variations, but what about the third?"

"Oh." Calista reached into her bag for the list she'd been keeping of all the experimental potions they'd tried, to prolong the shelf life of the blood-replenishing potion. They'd worked through over a dozen potions, and though a few had initially seemed promising, none had offered a viable solution with the same potency as the original potion.

 _It's only Tuesday_ , part of her mind said, while the other part screamed,  _It's already Tuesday!_

She did her best to silence the latter part of her mind, and frowned at her list.

"I only have two left on my list," she said, "I can't think of anything else to try that won't interfere with the existing ingredients."

Emily tilted her head, and looked at the remaining two sets of notes, and the ingredients laid out on the table.

"Do you think one of those is going to work?"

"Not really," Calista admitted, "I put the ones I thought were the best at the top of the list. Honestly, I was nearly certain that the goldenseal root was going to work… that was in the first round we tried."

Emily frowned, still stirring carefully to prevent the potion from settling while it was still on the heat. "What went wrong with that one, again?"

Calista consulted another page of her notes.

"We lost the potency of the salamander blood," she read off, "The goldenseal diluted it."

"Is that the only ingredient that it interfered with?"

Calista checked her notes again; ordinarily, she'd have remembered off the top of her head, but ordinarily, she wasn't waiting to find out whether her boyfriend's father wasn't about to ruin his life; ordinarily, she didn't feel compelled to run up to the Owlery five times a day to see if Lucerne or Uruz had brought anything for her, and  _ordinarily_ , she didn't feel the need to keep stealing glances at Terry every time she passed him in the corridors, to try and determine whether he'd heard from his brother yet.

Calista forced herself to nod. "But it's a pretty big 'only'," she cautioned, attempting to refocus her mind on the pages of notes, "It's one of the primary active ingredients, after all."

Emily frowned, slightly. "I know that," she said, voice rising with a trace of irritation, "I've been making this potion every other week since September, after all."

Calista caught motion from the corner of her eye and glanced up. George Spratt was looking their way, suddenly, from the next table over. She shrugged, and looked back at Emily — whose face had suddenly gone pink.

"Erm — anyway," Emily went on, stammering, "I was just — er, that is, maybe if we can  _counter_  that, somehow…"

Emily glanced across at George, and Calista saw him trying to suppress a smile.

"Is something funny?" she asked, crossly, "The two of you have got a better idea for this potion, have you?"

Emily's flush deepened, and George shook his head, quickly looking back down at his own cauldron.

Immediately, Calista felt a flash of guilt, and that irritated her even further; she knew she wasn't being fair. Whatever was passing between Emily and George, it more than likely had nothing to do with the potion, and even if it  _did_  — well, when she thought about it, Emily's idea wasn't a terrible one.

"Maybe," she muttered, and she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, "I — I need a minute."

Calista retreated, and after a quiet, hasty excuse to her father, she slipped out of the classroom, and into his quarters, where she let herself into the tiny lavatory, and ran the taps, just in case he did decide to come after her.

 _It's going to turn out fine_ , she told herself, unconvincingly.  _Gerald's clever, and my dad's going to help him figure it out._ I'm _going to help him figure it out. It's going to be fine._

Except… what if it wasn't? What if it was already too late? For what felt like the hundredth time in only a few days, Calista internally cursed her own blindness and her own stupidity in failing to realise exactly who it was that Terry had been writing to all year with his fancy new owl. Why hadn't she ever even thought to  _mention_  the owl to Gerald, even once? Why hadn't she called Terry out on asking to borrow Lucerne every time he wrote home to his brother?

"This isn't helping," Calista murmured to herself, barely audible over the running water, "Worrying aimlessly isn't helping Gerald, and it's certainly not helping  _me_  not fail my Potions assignment."

As if she didn't already have enough to worry about, that thought reminded her of the dreaded essay section of the Potions N.E.W.T.; the section where she was supposed to write about her independent project, and how it had contributed to her knowledge of the subject of Potions. The way things stood now, she had nothing to write about; what if she failed the exam, for having a subpar essay?

 _That's ridiculous_ , she scolded herself,  _You won't_ fail _; the essay is only fifteen percent of the mark._

All right, then; she wouldn't fail, but what if she achieved a lower score than expected? Even though she wasn't exactly overjoyed at the prospect of brewing potions for St. Mungo's, it would still be a thousand times better than toiling away in some miserable  _permit office_ , or worse, working with that nasty Umbridge woman. The offer from St. Mungo's had specified that it was conditional on her achieving the expected N.E.W.T. scores. Would they take it back if she didn't score Outstanding? Worse yet, what would her  _father_ say, if she failed to score Outstanding, after all his private lessons?

 _This still isn't helping_ , she reminded herself again; she calculated how long she'd been in here, and guessed that her father would be coming in search of her any minute now. She turned the taps off, and glanced in the mirror above the basin.  _I've got to concentrate on Potions, for the moment._

She started; not because she looked miserable and hopeless, but because she  _didn't_ ; she'd expected that her anxiety would be etched on her face, but her expression was smooth and unconcerned, reflecting none of the turmoil she was feeling. Perhaps she looked slightly irritated, but she thought wryly that it was easily explainable by the Snape in her. Didn't they, she and her father, nearly always look that way?

Something else struck her, startled her, in that moment. It was something Emily had said, and something she'd told herself, only seconds ago.

"Of course," she whispered, " _Concentrate._ "

She hurried out of the washroom, and down the hall, through her father's office, and back into the Potions classroom, ignoring her father's raised eyebrow of inquiry, and rejoining Emily at their table.

Emily had already divided the potion into four parts, bottling the control portion and splitting the rest between her own cauldron, Calista's, and another that Calista had borrowed from her father at the beginning of the semester.

"I think you're right, about the goldenseal," Calista said, "I think we ought to try that one again. The only problem was the dilution of the salamander blood; but what if we  _concentrate_  it first?"

Emily blinked, and then nodded, rapidly. Her brown eyes lit. "We'll have to start the potion over from scratch," she said, "Instead of adding our modifications after brewing the base potion… but I  _do_  think it might work."

"We'll have to use heat," Calista mused, "We'll need to up the ratio of the salamander blood, and boil some of the water out. It will change the viscosity, so the end consistency might well be off…"

"Can we adjust any of the other ratios to address that?" Emily asked. They both considered, and frowned, shaking their heads nearly in unison.

"We can't, really," Emily said, answering her own question, "But even so, the potion could still work, if the only thing that's off is the consistency. Oh, I can't wait until next week, to start a new batch and try it out."

"Try what out?" Severus' familiar, silky voice followed him over to their table. Calista opened her mouth to explain, but — oddly — her father was looking directly at Emily, instead. Emily explained, stuttering slightly, but more or less steadily, the idea they'd come up with.

Severus considered, and then nodded.

"It's not a terrible idea," he said, after a moment, and then:

"In fact… I think I'd like both of you to attempt the experimental batch next week." He lifted a brow in Emily's direction. "After all, Miss Yaxley — I daresay you've supplied the hospital wing with more than your fair share of the standard potion this year, and saved me the work of needing to do it myself."

Emily smiled, glowing at the rare praise from the Potions professor; Calista looked up again, and saw George Spratt positively grinning at Emily; he caught her eye, and the two of them shared a particular sort of smile…

Calista blinked, recognising a particularly familiar quality in that grin, a certain sort of bashful pride. It struck her that it was starkly similar to the one that had passed between her and Gerald when he'd gotten the Runes Translation job, and when she'd correctly brewed the Mandrake Draught last year.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

By lunchtime on Thursday, Calista couldn't stand waiting for news anymore. After ducking into her dormitory to fetch a fresh sheet of parchment, she forced herself to take a second detour through the kitchens to pick up a couple of pieces of fruit to eat despite her urgency, because she could imagine both Gerald and her father scolding her if she didn't.

She scanned the rafters when she entered; Lucerne spotted her and fluttered down, but Calista's eyes continued to survey the cavernous room, jumping automatically to every light-coloured owl they passed over. She thought she recognised Terry's owl, snoozing on a high beam; there were only a handful of snowy owls in the Owlery, after all. She wasn't quite certain if she ought to feel relieved that it wasn't out on a delivery, or dismayed, because its presence here was part of the horrible chain of events that she and Gerald had just uncovered.

Seeing she didn't yet have a letter ready for delivery, Lucerne left her to shuffle around in the straw, undoubtedly seeking out a snack. Calista hunched over what was quickly becoming her customary spot, leaning against the ledge beneath the light from the high, narrow window above.

She wrote for the entirety of the lunch hour, offering encouragement and a few carefully chosen romantic phrases — penned in Latin, of course — that she thought might cheer him up, might bring a brief smile to his face if such a thing were possible given his circumstances.

She forced herself to fill the page with these things, the kind words and the encouragements, despite the fact that all she  _really_ wanted to write was what she'd set out in the very first paragraph: a plea, to tell her what was happening; what he'd uncovered; what he planned to do.

When she finished the letter, she reflected that a year ago, she'd never have written so much; wouldn't have known to bother with anything but her questions, or would have dismissed anything else as frivolous. Nearly a year, though, of letters from  _him_  when she'd been the one floundering in the dark had taught her just how valuable the rest of it could be; how could she possibly dismiss the importance of making him feel loved, when his ability to make her feel the same way was the reason she nearly had her Patronus back, when she'd been convinced she never would again?

She called Lucerne over and attached the letter to her leg.

"Please wait for a response," she murmured, "I'll find you the fattest rat on the grounds if you come back with a reply."

Lucerne hooted in what Calista could only hope was understanding, and winged off through the window, and Calista hurriedly gathered her things for her tutoring block, hoping Professor Flitwick wouldn't mind that she was a few minutes late. With luck, he'd be in his office instead of the classroom, and might not notice; but then, when did she ever have  _good_  luck?

In keeping with proper irony, Calista spotted a tiny, familiar figure waiting at the door of the Charms classroom.

Before she could even open her mouth to apologise for being late, Professor Flitwick was ushering her into the classroom; Calista expected to see a waiting student, but the room was empty except for the two of them.

"Miss Snape," her professor said brightly, and she realised that he was positively brimming with excitement; evidently, whatever it was that had caused him to wait for her, she wasn't in trouble, at least, "Your father tells me that you should be available next Friday afternoon; may I assume that's true?"

Calista blinked. "Er — I don't have classes on Fridays, but I've been using the time to prepare for my N.E.W.T.s.  Why, does does someone need tutoring?"

"Ah, not exactly," Professor Flitwick said, "I have something else in mind — I'd like you to come and discuss your article."

"The one that the  _Experimental Charms Research Journal_ is printing?" Calista asked, feeling her heart begin to race, "They're not — there wasn't anything wrong with it, was there? They're not going to cancel —?"

"No, no, my dear, it's nothing like that," Professor Flitwick interrupted, gently, "There's no need to look so worried. I don't want to promise anything just yet, but — I think we may be able to find an opportunity for you to expand on your research."

"Another article?" Calista asked, hopefully; she felt her spirits lift. Even if the editing had been tedious, having a new topic to research might be just what she needed to keep the buzz of panic, the heavy mass in her gut, under control.

"Perhaps," Professor Flitwick said, "As I said, I don't want to make any promises, yet. Am I to understand that you are interested, then, and available?"

Calista nodded, without hesitation. "Yes, of course. Should I — should I prepare anything ahead of time? A list of possible topics, perhaps…?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," Professor Flitwick said, "Just keep the afternoon free. I'll give you a precise time once I've worked a few details out, yes?"

"I will," Calista vowed; mentally, she began rearranging her revision schedule, to accommodate the change. Exams were less than two months away now, and she'd blocked her time off meticulously to be certain she'd have enough time to properly prepare; but the truth was that she had always found new research more exciting than revision, and she was easily tempted by the prospect of pursuing new experiments.

Later, when Calista recalled her conversation with her professor, and the thought she'd had after it, she felt her mouth quirk into a sly grin despite herself.

_I always find new research more exciting than revision, and I'm always tempted by the prospect of pursuing new experiments._

She would need to remember that realisation, and find a creative way to recount it for Gerald in her next letter; after all, there was more than one ongoing research project that she was eager to explore further.

It was strange; when she thought about Gerald, she felt two things, all-powerful and all at once: she felt a fierce protective worry, and she felt — well, she felt something else that was equally fierce, but that wasn't as easy to put into words, but what they added up to was simple: she missed him, every minute that she wasn't near him. The strange thing was, it didn't get any easier the more that she saw him; instead, the times in between were more acute, harder to bear.

If anyone had ever  _really_  tried to explain this to her before — this feeling that she supposed must be what  _being in love_  was — she knew she'd have vowed never to let herself fall victim to it, just as she'd once vowed never to marry, or to share her room. It all seemed, in theory, so exhausting and she didn't have words to explain, even to herself, why it was worth the trouble, despite the fact that it could be just as exhausting as it sounded.

She allowed herself, briefly, to imagine his warm brown eyes, the irresistibly playful grin he donned when flirting with her, the wider, more open one he wore when she made him laugh, and the light, sweet pressure when he touched her cheek, or kissed her hand; the adorable crook of his neck, bent over a textbook, the practised way his fingers flipped, always, to the index first, and all at once, she felt it again:the star in her chest that lit up and made it all worth it; the feeling she couldn't explain.

She felt the feeling spreading, warming her blood and her skin and comforting her like nothing else in the last few days had managed to, not even her conversation with Professor Flitwick; and then, she succumbed to her sudden inspiration, and drew her wand, aiming it into the air above her father's kitchen table, where she'd come to avoid the Great Hall, and to work on her homework.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," she said, with more hope than she'd had in as long as she could recall —

A brilliant blue light filled the room, as intense as any Patronus she'd ever cast — and  _still_ , it was formless, at least until she looked closely, and saw, again, the flash of a slim, hooved leg; but as quickly as she'd glimpsed that, it was gone, and another shape was stretching its way out of the mass of light — a long, delicate shape that was…

"It looks like a wing. Perhaps… an owl?"

Calista started; she peered through the light, still bright even though she'd finished her cast, and made out her father's form in the kitchen doorway.

She felt, inexplicably, a flash of guilt; as quickly as it had filled the kitchen, the light faded, leaving the room feeling pitch-dark even though the overhead candles still burned.

"I — I'm not certain about that," Calista said, unable to read the expression on her father's face. "It could have been something else."

Severus nodded, but still, his features were carefully blank; he didn't meet her eyes. It struck her that there had been a time when he'd always met her gaze, even if his own was inscrutable; but if he was right, if she really  _was_  stronger since this past summer, then perhaps he feared it wouldn't be quite so unreadable, to her.

For some reason — and today she was full of feelings she couldn't put into words — that thought made her gut twist, and sink; she supposed in the same way his might be doing when he said, softly:

"Yes; I suppose it might be a hummingbird."

"Or," she ventured, feeling suddenly and strangely close to tears, "It might — it might be a doe…"

"No," Severus said, abruptly; his jaw twitched, and he withdrew half a step, into the shadowy corridor behind him. "Calista, it's not."

She wished that she was incapable of identifying the twisting note in his voice, when he said that; but of course she could. She was too well-acquainted with grief not to recognise it at once.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, uncertainly; but he had already gone. She heard the  _click_  of his workroom door across the hall, and his footsteps descending the stair beyond.

He was right; she felt it inside, in the very same place that she'd felt the light that had inspired her to try the spell, again. She didn't know for certain what her Patronus  _was_  going to be, now, but she knew two things it wasn't.

It wasn't a cat, anymore; and it wasn't a doe.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista had agreed, after nearly a week of incessant pestering from her younger cousin, to go and watch the final Quidditch match of the year, despite the fact that she had a schedule of revisions, and despite the fact that she'd rather sit on hot coals than amid screaming Quidditch fans, if she were being perfectly honest.

"It's my second year as Seeker, and you've hardly watched any of the games," Draco had whined; Calista wisely neglected to point out that she'd only watched precisely  _one_  of them, and that neither he nor Slytherin had come off particularly well in the one she'd seen.

Simply acquiescing to watch hadn't been enough, either. "You have to sit with the rest of the Slytherins," Draco had commanded, "I'm tired of having to explain to my friends why you'd rather sit with those boring Mu— er, Ravenclaws."

She was tempted to retract her agreement, when he'd almost slipped up and called her friends Mudbloods, especially because her anger with him over that had rekindled her earlier anger, over the dementor incidents — all of them, teasing Potter and Percy's younger sister over their reactions which probably hadn't been much different from her own, and the one that still boiled her blood when she thought about it; the one where he and his friends and Marcus Flint had actually  _impersonated_  dementors.

She had intended to address it, at least with her cousin, but as usual, she'd had a hundred other problems, and the time had passed. She was doing her best to let go of her resentment, but he seemed determined to bring it back to the surface, or at least she couldn't help but ungraciously think that was his intention, whenever she heard the M-word slip, like fluid, off his tongue.

And then, on Friday morning, the day before the Quidditch match, she saw Lucerne swoop into the Great Hall, with a letter tied to her leg, and soon she forgot entirely about her cousin, and about Quidditch, and about her Patronus and her revisions and almost  _everything_.

She opened the letter, overager fingers trembling, and found one of the shortest and plainest letters Gerald had ever written.

_Mon colibri,_

_I must have tried a dozen times to write you a proper response, and nothing is coming out right. Nothing I say to anyone is coming out right; I feel so lost, mon cœur, so hopeless, and I think the courage you helped me find is wearing off now that I am away from you._

_I hate to ask, because I know you must be preparing for exams, and I'll understand if you can't, but is there any chance you can call me on the fire, tonight or tomorrow? My home isn't connected to the Floo Network, but I can use the fireplace at Chadwick's . I'll give you the information, in case you can call. I'll be there after six this evening, and probably most of the day tomorrow._

_I hope you can call._

_Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald_

Below, there was the precise name by which Chadwick's fireplace was connected to the Floo network, which she'd need to make the call, and his address in London, just in case something went wrong and she had to have the Floo Operator connect her.

She wanted to call right away, but he'd said he wouldn't be there until after six — after work, she realised. She wondered if she could call his office; she thought she remembered the location of his department from what the guide had said on her Ministry tour, but she supposed if he had been able to take the call at work, he would have said so.

By six, she was already in her father's study, the parchment of Gerald's letter gripped securely in her trembling hands. Whatever news he had, it certainly didn't sound likely to be  _good_  news; she'd explained to her father her need to use the fireplace, and after making her promise to eat something when she was done — she was far too nervous to do so beforehand — he'd taken down his store of Floo powder, and retreated, closing the study door quietly behind him.

She tossed a pinch of the fine, silvery powder on the fire and spoke the name of the fireplace clearly; when the flames swirled and turned green, she poked her head forward, into them — and suddenly, she was looking into a living room that seemed to be wallpapered with a combination of Quidditch posters, and flyers advertising books; the latter reminded her a great deal of what Emily Yaxley's house had looked like when she'd visited one summer, and she found herself wondering if Gerald had gotten Chadwick the flyers from his old job at Flourish and Blott's.

"Gerald?" she called, doing her best to ignore the warm, slightly dizzying lick of the flames around her face. She hardly ever made outbound calls on the fire, and she was quickly finding that she preferred receiving them.

"Oh — hey, Calista." It wasn't Gerald's face that swam suddenly into view, as a lanky form crouched before the fireplace; it was his cousin, Chadwick's.

"Hi, Chadwick. Is Gerald at your house? He asked me to call him there — er, here."

Chadwick nodded. "Got here about ten minutes ago. He's rummaging through the kitchen, insisting he's going to make dinner."

"Oh. I could… I could try again later?"

"No, don't — hang on, I'll get him." Perhaps even in the strange flame-avatar version of her face that she knew was projected into his fireplace, he sensed her hesitation, because he added: "Seriously, I keep telling him, I'd rather get takeaway — Mira never lets me, and she's not coming over tonight."

He rose, and disappeared, and only a few seconds later, Gerald was the one crouched before the fireplace.

"Calista," he said; despite the eagerness in his tone, she could see the anxiety, and the weariness, etched in his face, and suddenly it wasn't only the flames that were making her feel ill at ease. "I didn't realise you'd call so soon — I'm glad, of course, I just feel bad, I was going to make something for Chadwick for letting me spend so much time here —"

"If you want to thank me, mate, let me order a pizza," Chadwick called cheerfully, from somewhere Calista couldn't see, "I haven't had one in  _months_."

Gerald turned and had a brief exchange with Chadwick over his shoulder, presumably about the aforementioned pizza; and then, Gerald scooted closer to the fireplace, looking rather like he wanted to pull her through it, to his side.

"Does Chadwick know about everything?" she asked, quietly, "I mean — is it okay to talk about it, with him there?"

Gerald nodded. "He knows most of it," he said, "He — he knew about the money; the vault access." His tone turned slightly grim when he added, "And your father was right, as to why no one told  _me_ ; they guessed that I was still writing  _him_  all the time, and they didn't want him to use me to get to it."

"How could they think you'd help  _him_?"

"I would have given my share to him," Gerald admitted, baldly, "If there were a way to guarantee that doing so would keep him away; I'd  _still_  do it, but I can't: it's in a trust until I'm twenty-five. So is Terry's share, and so is  _everyone's_ , although it appears that a legal guardian can circumvent those rules, since Chadwick's father helped him withdraw some of his share last year for Mira's engagement ring."

"Most of my share," Chadwick called out, good-naturedly; Calista could see his legs go by, in the background. "Woman's got expensive taste, I'm telling you. Completely worth it, though, except for this nonsense about ordering less takeaway."

Distantly, she heard a door close, and she didn't catch sight of Chadwick's legs going back the other way.

"He's gone out," Gerald confirmed, "Allegedly to get a pizza, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's gone long enough for us to talk — he's been —" he paused, and tilted his head. "Well, I suppose you could say, I didn't quite understand, before, how you could be so close to your cousin, despite the things you  _didn't_  have in common; but I'm beginning to, now."

"We're not so close, these days," she murmured, and she realised as she said it that it was true; she felt a pang of something acrid, as she admitted the truth of it to herself, but she blamed it on the coals around her.

"Gerald, tell me what's going on," she said, quickly, before she could dwell further on Draco, "What have you found out? What did your mother say? Terry's stopped writing to  _him_ , hasn't he?"

"I don't know," Gerald admitted, hunching his shoulders, "I — I tried ordering him to stop writing, and once I realised that was going nowhere, I tried  _begging_  him to stop; but I don't know if he really will. He won't return my letters at the moment."

"He has to," Calista said, "He has to understand; doesn't he realise your father's just lying, again?"

She could almost hear her mother's voice, slithering its way into her dreams the way it had always managed to, when she was younger;  _we can start over_ , her mother had said, and  _everything will be different this time._

"I don't think he does," Gerald said, quietly.

"He has to," Calist said again, "No matter how badly he wants to believe otherwise; he's got to know, he's got to see... " she swallowed, and despite the uncomfortable heat of the fireplace, and the familiar ache in her gut that always came when she thought about her mother, she pressed on: "She used to promise me things, and I wanted — but of course, really, I  _knew_ , even if I didn't want to — it wasn't real."

"You remember," Gerald said softly, "Just like  _I_ remember; but Terry doesn't. He was five, when our father went to Azkaban, and he — I did my best, when I was small, to keep the worst of it from him."

"I was his age, or not much older, when S —" she shook her head; heat rising around her.  _Sirius Black_ , her mind whispered at her, insistently,  _Whatever else he did, Sirius Black rescued you from her_. "When someone took me from  _her_ ," she went on, feeling her mouth dry out from the flames, or from something else. "But I still remembered; I still knew."

Gerald frowned. He dropped his eyes briefly, and then he shifted even closer; she was tempted to reach out, and try to touch his shoulder, reassuringly — she had the illusion that she could reach it, but of course that was all it was; the grates at Hogwarts were blocked from full-body transportation. All she could do was exactly what she was doing.

"He accused me of lying," he said, in a voice so small and so weak it was scarcely more than a whisper; she had to struggle to hear it over the gentle popping and crackling of the coals beneath her. "He said — he said I was jealous, that  _he —_ our father — told him I'd say exactly the things I was saying, to try and turn them apart from each other…"

"That little bastard," Calista fumed, before she could quite stop herself — Gerald looked up, startled, and Calista corrected herself, hastily:

"I'm sorry, I just mean — he knows what you've been through, he knows how badly you've been hurt. It's just like —  _he's_  just like Draco sometimes, you know; he does what he wants, he takes it for granted that you're there for  _him_ , and he just… he just doesn't care if what he says is hurting you…"

She blinked, eyes blurring against the smoke, or at least that was what she told herself.

"He doesn't know," Gerald said, hollowly; and then: "I couldn't tell him all of it, not — I mean, I always thought he'd be happier if he didn't really remember, and  _now_  —"

"Don't do that," Calista said, suddenly and fiercely; Gerald started, meeting her gaze, bewilderment evident on his face.

"Don't ever decide for someone  _else_  what they'd be happier remembering or not remembering," she said, "It shouldn't be your choice to make."

" _Mon cœur,"_ Gerald started, softening, and Calista swallowed, setting her jaw.

"Don't do that either," she said, "Don't ask me if I'm all right, and don't change the subject; I don't want that. I just want you to realise, you can't really protect him like that, and — it's not right to keep trying to."

A minute passed; Gerald looked away from her, towards the door, but no one came through it, at least not that she could see from her vantage point; it struck her to wonder if he was turning away so there was no chance that she could read his thoughts in his gaze, now that he'd seen firsthand what she could do. She realised she wanted very much for that thought to be proven false; she didn't think she could stand it if Gerald were suddenly afraid of her, in any capacity.

"He's never seen the scars," he said, quietly and grimly, meeting her gaze once again. "I never let him see."

Calista blinked. "You share a  _room_  with him," she pointed out, "How can he not have seen —?"

"You have roommates," Gerald countered, "Have they ever seen yours?"

She felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace.

"Of course not. But it's different…"

"Is it?" Gerald frowned. "Terry thinks — he thinks it's just part of my being a swot, like he always says — I wear long sleeves at home, I pretend that I get cold easily, even though half the time I'm sweltering, and I — I make out like I'm too embarrassed to change clothes in front of anyone, and really I  _am_ , but not for the reason anyone thinks…"

Calista felt her breath catch; all this time that she'd hidden her own scars, she'd never imagined he might be doing the same thing — even when he'd revealed his to her, it hadn't really occurred to her to wonder if he'd ever revealed them to anyone  _else_.

"You let me see," she murmured, not quite sure why she felt the need to point it out.

"Yes, well," Gerald muttered, "I mean, I don't exactly have a motivation for my  _brother_  to see me without clothes on, but I had to know if  _you'd_  ever be okay with —" he flushed, and then: "And anyway, I was beginning to realise that was  _your_ secret, and I thought — maybe it would help you trust me, if you saw…"

"It did," she said, quietly, because she didn't trust herself to say much else.

"It's not the same, though," he said, with a touch of bitterness, "You're — you're still beautiful, and I'm disfig—"

"Gerald, shut up."

He blinked, and looked taken aback for a second time.

"You're changing the subject again," she accused, her forehead was feeling overly warm from the fireplace, and she blamed that for what came out of her mouth next:

"And for the record, I'm a bit more than  _okay with_  the idea of seeing you without clothes on."

His cheeks turned pink, and suddenly Calista felt overwhelmingly warm; she pulled her head momentarily out of the fireplace, feeling relief as a rush of cool air hit her face. She glanced over her shoulder, reassuring herself that the door to her father's study was still firmly closed, that there was no way he could have overheard her.

"Calista?"

Faintly, she could hear Gerald's voice through the connection. She took a steadying breath and pushed her face back through the swirling green flames.

"Sorry," she said again, though she wasn't certain exactly what she was apologising for. "I just — it was warm. Anyway...what about your mother? Can she help you convince Terry?"

Gerald blinked, and shook his head, clearing it, though it was admittedly a few minutes before his colour returned entirely to normal.

"I don't know," he said, "She — I've always gotten the impression that she feels the same way I do, that's it's better he doesn't remember. She… she never really brings him up. Not with me, and not with Terry."

"Well, but what about  _now_?" Calista pressed, "She must realise that none of you can afford to just ignore this —"

Gerald shifted, and frowned. Calista narrowed her eyes shrewdly.

"You haven't told her what's going on yet, have you?"

"I can't," he said, helplessly, "I keep trying, but then — all I can picture is the way she was back  _then_ , when it was all happening. She was… she didn't take it well. She used to look so  _lost._ She used to cry, a lot…"

"Well, maybe that's fair," Calista said, with a bit less empathy than she intended, "Maybe she  _should_  have been sad for letting you go through that for so long — "

"I don't think she really knew how bad it was," Gerald said, almost automatically, but Calista frowned. She opened her mouth, but Gerald shook his head, first.

"No, you're right, of course; she was the parent, and I was a child. I know that, it's just — I don't feel right about bringing it all back; maybe she should have done something more back  _then_ , but the reason it's all coming back now is my own stupidity."

"And mine," Calista added, giving voice to the weight that had settled into her gut, this past week. "I should have said something, about the owl; I should have realised."

Gerald raised his eyebrows. "You can't possibly be blaming yourself for any of this," he said, "Without you, I'd still be completely in the dark — I'm sure I would have signed those papers, and things would be a hundred times worse than they already are."

Calista shrugged, and her shoulders rubbed uncomfortably against the sides of the fireplace. She winced.

"How — how bad  _are_  things?" she asked, feeling her face pinch. "Did you have a chance to look at the documents my father told you to get copies of?"

He nodded. "Things aren't as bad as they could be," he said, a bit grimly, "But they're not certainly not good."

He sighed, and rubbed under his jaw, almost absently. If she could have, she would have reached out to touch him, to reassure him, but she had to settle for listening.

"He hasn't filed anything about custody  _yet_ ," he said, "At least, not that I could find — but he's got copies of all the same things I've got copies of. The records offices I went to had sign-off logs, of everyone who's requested copies of files, and  _his_  name was on every single one of the lists."

"What sorts of things were there?"

"My parents' marriage record, and their divorce record," Gerald said, "I found the custody paperwork, too; there  _was_  a Muggle version on file, giving Mum full rights, so I imagine it's that he's planning on contesting. That's… to be honest, that's what I'm worried about most; it gives the reason of 'domestic abuse' for the custody decision, but there are hardly any accompanying details; no court case to cite. I've been doing some research, and typically there should be some supplemental evidence on file."

"What about the Ministry?" Calista asked, "The Obfuscation Office, or the Wizengamot — don't they have all of that on file?"

Gerald exhaled; Calista could see his fingers tremble, and she ached to hold onto them.

"I got what I could," he said, "But the problem is that almost none of it's admissible in the Muggle courts — evidently, they only deemed the accusations of the spells he cast on us as worthy of noting; there's almost nothing about any of the other things."

"What about your mother's letter?"

"I have that," he said, "But Umbridge didn't let me submit it as evidence, remember? I don't know how much weight it will carry given that it's not deemed an official testimony."

Calista took a breath. "What if there's a way to change that?"

"I'm not certain what you mean."

"Umbridge owes me a favour," she said, grimly, "My uncle made that  _quite_  clear; and since I didn't want the one she offered — didn't want to work with her, at the Ministry — I suppose that means it's still up for negotiation."

Gerald swallowed. "You think — do you really think she could be trusted, to follow through?"

"No," Calista said, "I'm certain she  _can't_ be; but I do trust Uncle Lucius' ability to force her hand, as wary as I am to cash in on that."

"I don't think I'm fond of the idea of your being indebted to either one of them on my behalf," Gerald hedged.

"Uncle Lucius offered to help you, too," Calista reminded him, "I think you realise it wasn't purely out of the kindness of his heart — and I'm not saying that I think accepting his help is necessarily the  _best_  course of action, for either of us, but — it is  _a_  course of action, and at this point, it doesn't sound like we have another one."

He exhaled. "I don't like it," he said, "Especially not the part about involving Umbridge — but I suppose I'm hardly in a position to refuse any offer of help, not when Terry might be in danger. Let's consider it a last resort."

She nodded. "Is there anything else you might be able to get that would help? Can they — can they change some of the report to something besides spells, perhaps? Couldn't Chadwick come up with some kind of Muggle explanation for your scars?"

Gerald shook his head. "It's not — I've already asked, and he wants to help, but the Misinformation Office doesn't work like that; he can't alter Ministry records. There's something else, though… or at least, there  _might_  be. Something… something there might be a file on, but — I'd have to ask Mum, and… and she'd want to know why I'm asking."

"Isn't she going to find out anyway, if your father files a suit against her for custody of Terry?"

Gerald winced. "I don't know," he admitted, "I'm not certain if she's registered her name with the Muggle post office, or not; I tend to think she hasn't, as we don't get much Muggle post at the house; certainly,  _he_  wouldn't be able to tell them where to reach her."

Calista frowned. "Is it like wizarding courts, where the defendant automatically loses if no one shows up in his or her defence?"

"I think so."

"Can you even fight this, then, if it makes it to court?" she wondered, "Or does it have to be her?"

He shrugged, and shook his head, utterly lost; it was so jarring, to see him like this. Usually, it was he who had the plans and knew all the loopholes.

"I don't know," he admitted, again. "I've never really — honestly, I've never really thought much about the Muggle legal system; I'm just trying to learn now, and it's horribly complicated. I… I have no idea what I'm doing, and the stakes if I muck it up are astronomical. If I could just…" he sighed, and shook his head. "If I could just…"

"Tell your mother," Calista said, gently, "You told me you would."

"I know. I intended to, when I said it. I just… it seemed possible, when you were with me. Now it's… I don't know."

His expression shifted, suddenly he looked up, naked hope in his eyes. "I don't suppose — I know I shouldn't ask, but… could I come and see you in Hogsmeade again? Tomorrow, or next Saturday, perhaps? I think it would… I think I might feel braver, again, if I could just —"

He lifted one hand, as if he could reach through the fire and touch her, but of course it didn't work that way.

Calista felt a pang in her gut, and then suddenly, she realised she felt lighter. She had a way — she could  _still_  help him. She recalled, suddenly, a night many months ago, when she'd retreated to the secret room on the seventh floor, feeling hopeless and vulnerable.

Daisy had followed her, but for a moment — just a moment — she'd imagined that the footsteps behind her were somehow Gerald's, though he had already graduated, and she'd been prepared to tell him  _everything,_ so much sooner than she actually had, because his presence in that moment would have given her more courage than every goddamn fool in Gryffindor possessed collectively.

"I have a better idea," she said, "What if I — I'll have to ask my father, of course, but what if I came to see  _you_ , to help you explain things to your mum?"

Gerald's eyes widened; the hope she'd glimpsed a moment ago blossomed, as clear and bright as the shapeless Patronus she'd managed the night before.

"Calista, that would mean  _so much_  to me, I can't even explain; but you have revisions, don't you…? And lessons with your father?"

"Those are on Sundays, now," she said, "And I can move my revisions. The only thing I'd miss tomorrow is a bloody Quidditch match; I don't care about that."

She felt a sharp, twisting flash of guilt, and buried it promptly. Yes, she'd promised Draco she'd watch the match, but Gerald  _needed_ her… and Gerald had never called her friends Mudbloods, or teased anyone about reacting to the dementors.

It couldn't possibly bother her cousin  _that_  much, she reasoned, even if it  _was_  the last match of his she'd be at school for. He'd understand, once she could properly explain…

"I'll ask my Dad now," she said.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus had agreed almost immediately to let her go, though it didn't make him any less sour when he dropped her off, or lacking at all in petulant instruction, despite the fact that Sirius Black hadn't been sighted anywhere near the castle in months.

"I'll be back in exactly two hours," he'd said, "Don't go anywhere but Gerald's flat, and if you see anything or any _one_  suspicious on the way there from the Apparition point, you're to Apparate to your Aunt and Uncle's house  _immediately_ and call me from there."

"Oh, I'm finally allowed to Apparate on my own now, am I?" she hadn't been able to resist muttering, and so help her Merlin, he'd almost yanked her back to the castle for that one, until she'd hastily apologised, and confirmed that she did know the coordinates for the Apparition point outside the gates of Malfoy Manor.

When Gerald first met her at the Apparition point, once Severus had gone, he had reached for her, and for the space of several minutes, just held on to her; his face had been drawn and grim, and his arms had seemed to crave comfort, rather than intimacy. It struck her that although  _she_  had held onto others in precisely the same fashion — her father, her aunt, Gerald — no one had ever really reached for her the same way.

The urge to find a way to help him strengthened, and she returned his embrace, holding onto him, and, after a moment, moving her hand to his shoulder, in their old familiar gesture. Even now, with so much weighing on him, the simple gesture had elicited a small, soft sigh of relief, and she was immediately glad she had come, even if they accomplished nothing else.

When they reached the front of his building, Gerald hesitated outside.

"I've already told Mum that there's something I need to talk to her about," he said, "And then — stupidly, not realising how it sounded, I told her you were coming, to help me explain, and… erm, I apologise in advance if she asks you if you're pregnant."

" _What?_ "

"I told her you weren't, of course," he added, hastily, "It's not — I mean, I tried to make it pretty clear that it wasn't even a possibility but I don't know if she really believed me. I… honestly, it never even occurred to me until she started panicking that  _that_  was what she'd assume from what I said. I feel like a bit of an idiot."

"Oh, Merlin. I hope she doesn't hate me, now."

"Erm, no," Gerald said, "It was more — she's heard stories about  _your_  dad, and… erm, Terry and Chadwick may have exaggerated a bit, and I think she's afraid he's going to try to murder me."

Calista winced. "Actually, erm. I mean, if that  _was_  what — and obviously it's not — but I'm not certain her fears would be unfounded. But of course I wouldn't — I mean, even if we  _were_ , I'd be drinking the potion, obviously, so — " she stopped, feeling her face heat up. "Anyway, erm — thanks for the warning, I guess."

"Yeah," Gerald said, and his face was pink, too. "I would have told her that — and the spell, too, you know, obviously I'd do that if you wanted, but — it seemed better to just… I mean, we're  _not_ , so that's… that's pretty much what I said."

"Yeah," Calista echoed, exhaling, and she cast about for something,  _anything_  she could say to change the subject. "So," she said, quickly, "The — erm, you said there might be something you could ask her about, some document. What… what was it? Another letter, or something…?"

He shook his head, and took a moment to collect himself; gradually, the colour faded from his cheeks, and he reached hesitantly for her hand. She took it, not echoing his hesitation in the least, and squeezed it, and then his shoulders dropped once more in relief.

"No, it's… something happened when I was eight or so, and I suppose it's got to be on record, because I… erm, I had to go to the hospital."

Calista blinked. "You had to go to St. Mungo's?"

He shook his head. "A Muggle hospital," he said, grimly, "The one my mum used to work at, before she — well, anyway, it was… I  _wish_  I'd gone to St. Mungo's. Muggle hospitals are awful."

She frowned, and squeezed his hand again. "What happened?"

"I was — it was at our old house. He was cross with me for something, I don't remember what, but he… he shoved me, and I ended up going down the stairs… my magic didn't kick in — it was still very sporadic, back then — and I broke my arm."

"Why did they take you to a Muggle hospital?" she wondered, "A St. Mungo's healer could have fixed that in about three seconds."

" _He_  tried to fix it," Gerald said, "But it didn't come out right, it was… it was all crooked, and it hurt…"

He swallowed. "I think, sometimes… he might have mucked it up on purpose. Seemed to think that it — it served me right, for whatever it was I had done. I don't know how long he planned to leave it that way, but Mum felt awful. She was… I think she was pretty riled, because it was one of the few times I remember her yelling back at him, for what he'd done. He actually backed off a bit, for a while, after that…"

She saw his pulse jump, at this throat, and she reached her free hand up, placing it on his shoulder supportively. He leaned into it.

"The hospital was the worst part of all of it," he confided, "I don't know how much you know about Muggle medicine, but it's — barbaric. They don't have spells to fix a bone, or mend a cut."

He withdrew his hand from hers, and with his other, unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve. With trembling fingers, he pushed his sleeve up, revealing his forearm. An unnaturally straight pink line ran lengthwise along the inside, perfectly centred between his wrist and elbow, perhaps ten or twelve centimetres long. He ran his fingers along it, not quite absently.

"This isn't from him," he told her, voice low and sounding very near to wavering, "It's what they did, at the hospital — they cut my arm open, and re-broke the bone, and then they set it properly and — and sewed my skin back up with a needle and thread, like — like I was a pair of trousers, or something."

"They did  _what?_ " she felt her eyes, and her mouth go wide with horror. "That's horrific — and they call that  _medicine_?"

"Yeah." He pushed his sleeve back down, and fumbled with the button, but she pushed his trembling fingers gently aside and fastened it for him. "It's — I should have said, you don't feel much of it," he told her, "They give you drugs — erm, sort of a Muggle version of a potion — that dulls most of the immediate pain, but it's still…" he shuddered. "Let's just say, if I'd realised what I was in for, I would have told Mum nevermind, I'd keep my arm just the way it was."

"I wouldn't blame you; That's the most barbaric thing I've ever heard — and it's  _legal_?"

He reached for her hands now, with both of his, and he nodded. "They don't seem to think there's anything wrong with it. There's a whole profession — they call them surgeons, and their entire job is essentially to slice people open and — and mess with their insides. My mum's a secretary for one; I don't know how she can stand it. Personally, I won't go within sight of one of those places ever again, if I can help it."

A sickening image flashed across her mind; a shadowy figure, wielding a large knife — an even larger, and sharper version of the one that usually haunted her nightmares — over a smaller, helpless form strapped to a hospital bed. She shivered, and concentrated on keeping her mind alert, trying to bury the image before it really took hold, and then there was a sudden, soft weight on  _her_  shoulder. She looked up, meeting Gerald's concerned gaze gratefully.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm all right," she said, and suddenly it was true, or close enough to it. "We should — I suppose we should go in…"

"I suppose so." Gerald nodded, and slid his hand down her arm, taking hers up within it again, and they went inside, and up the stairs.

The door opened before they'd even reached the top stair; Calista had a strong suspicion that Gerald's mother, Tina, had been waiting for the sound of their footsteps. She didn't miss the way his mother's eyes went straight to her midsection, assessing.

"Calista," she said, and to her credit she did still manage to sound friendly, despite the worried pull of a frown at the corners of her mouth, "Hello, dear; how are you feeling?"

" _Mum_ ," Gerald said, embarrassed, "She's fine; I told you she's not — it's not  _that_."

"Well, really, Gerry, what am I  _supposed_  to think, when my eighteen-year-old son's been awake at all hours of the night for  _weeks_ , and — and going out in the evenings without saying where, and then suddenly tells me he's got to tell me something important about his girlfriend?"

"I didn't say it was  _about_  her," Gerald said, "I said I wanted her to be here when I told you; it's not the same thing, it's — I just…."

"We help each other," Calista supplied, quietly, "With things that are difficult."

She still looked unconvinced; she frowned at Calista's non-existent belly.

"It's about Dad," Gerald finally said, through gritted teeth, and suddenly, his mother's eyes shot to his face, and her expression cleared.

"I thought I heard your cousin saying something about him the last time he was visiting; don't tell me  _he's_  having another child?"

"Mum, no one's having a child — at least not that I'm aware of; can we please let that subject drop?"

Tina exhaled. "All right; that's a relief. Come on, then — shall we all go to the living room? Whatever this is, it sounds as though I should be sitting down for it."

She sat in the armchair, leaving the sofa for Calista and Gerald. They sat closer than they had the last time they were both on this couch; she reached for his hand immediately, and their fingers twined together.

"Right, then," Gerald said, once they'd all sat down, and the silence had stretched uncomfortably for several seconds. "I suppose I should just — tell you everything, from the beginning. Will you let me finish the story in one go? I don't know if I'll be able to start again, if I stop…"

Tina nodded, and Calista saw that she was looking nervous again, although it was a different sort of nervous from how she'd looked when she'd evidently been afraid she was about to become a grandmother.

"You know about the Obfuscation Office," Gerald started, after a moment; Calista squeezed his hand for encouragement. "I mean, I've told you how it works; the thing I didn't realise at first is that its scope is somewhat limited; that is, it only works if the person you're concealing your whereabouts from doesn't know where to find you."

Tina nodded again, more uncertainly this time, waiting for him to go on.

"Every wizarding child goes to Hogwarts when they're eleven," Gerald explained, and then he went on to tell her about receiving a letter from his father when he was thirteen, though Calista noticed he glossed over much of the part that he'd told  _her_ , the nightmares that had jolted him awake at night, the pervading fear that his father would come for him at any moment; reluctantly, he told her about the invitations to meet, and how he'd finally acquiesced.

"Oh, Gerry," Tina interrupted, "You should have  _told_  me. He wasn't allowed to do that."

"Well, he found the loophole," Gerald said grimly, "Mum, please, I — I'm sorry, but that's really only the beginning, and I… this really isn't easy to tell you."

She frowned. "But Gerry, I —" she must have caught something in his expression. She nodded, reluctantly. "Go on, then."

He went on in the same fashion, seeming determined to spare his mother from the worst details — from his fear, not only  _of_ his father, but also the confession he'd made to Calista of being afraid of ending up  _like_ his father. He gave her the bare facts, about all of the letters, and leading up to the last year, the absurd arrangement he'd agreed to, in exchange for his father leaving Terry alone, and then — finally, he got to the crux of it, the meeting with the solicitor.

"I thought — I really thought this was my chance to make it all go away," Gerald said, miserably; his hands trembled, even when Calista reached for his free hand with hers, and held them securely. "To make  _him_  go away; but it wasn't — Calista found out —"

She stiffened slightly, but he went on as smoothly as if he'd rehearsed this part, and perhaps he had, because it came out very convincingly: "She found out who the solicitor was, and got into his files, and uncovered that Dad's been writing to Terry at school for  _months_ , and — and the letters he was having me write were part of a suit he intends to file, disputing the custody arrangement. He wants…"

He shuddered, and his voice cracked, as he finished: "He wants to try and get custody of Terry, and he might win if we can't find a way to prove the things he did, and — and it's all my bloody fault."

"No," Tina spoke up at last, and her voice was surprisingly more forceful than Calista expected; she leaned forward in her chair. "No, it's not, Gerry, and he's not going to get what he wants."

"It  _is_  my fault," Gerald insisted, "I was too stupid to realise what he was on about — and you don't understand, I checked all of the files at the office in Blackburn, and there's not enough evidence against him — it's all in the other courts, and it's not admissible because — because…"

"The Statute of Secrecy," Calista said, "It's a set of laws — our laws — about what you can and can't disclose to Mug — erm, other people."

Gerald nodded hastily, taking a loud breath, and Calista noted that his shoulders were shaking; she let go of his hands and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and suddenly he was lifting his glasses off, and dashing at his eyes with shaking fingers.

Tina stood, and crossed the room to the sofa; she set her hand at the side of her son's face in a gesture that reminded Calista sharply of Aunt Narcissa.

"I'm sorry," Gerald croaked, "I didn't mean, I didn't realise — but I think I can fix it, I just need… I just need the papers, from the hospital, that time — with my arm, and — and hopefully I can prove…"

" _No_ ," his mother said again, and her fingers shifted, stroking Gerald's hair affectionately; Calista felt suddenly like she was intruding, but when she started to pull slightly away, Gerald's arm came around her waist, tugging her close.

"Gerald Chadwick Boot, you listen to me," Tina said, and there was a commanding note in her voice that Calista couldn't have ever imagined coming from the slight, typically soft-spoken woman. "You haven't done anything wrong, and you don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"You don't understand," Gerald whispered, "Mum, he's going to get Terry —"

"No he isn't," Tina said firmly, "I'm calling Helen, and we'll take care of this. It isn't your job to protect this family, Gerry, it's  _mine_. And I'll promise you one thing — from this very moment on, that man is not hurting either one of  _my sons_  again."

Gerald shuddered, and swiped his hand across his eyes again, letting his glasses fall clumsily back onto his nose, askew, in the process. "Helen?" he managed, "Your friend that used to come over, after…?"

Tina shifted, so that her hand was on his shoulder, and Calista shifted too, wrapping the fingers of one hand among the fingers of his that still lingered at her waist, and using her other hand to rub his back in slow, gentle circles, like he had done for her, when  _she_  had been the one feeling huddled and useless on a parent's sofa, driven to tears by her past.

"Gerry, sweetheart, Helen wasn't my friend — she was a police officer; a detective. After your father went to that — that  _other_  prison, I wanted to make sure he couldn't hurt my boys when he got out, so I went to file for a protective order, only I didn't realise they were meant to be for a limited window of time…"

She shook her head, and went on. "Helen was the officer assigned to our case; don't you remember her asking you all sorts of questions, about what had happened to you?"

"I… vaguely," Gerald said, hesitantly. "I remember — I remember you told me to tell her only the… the 'regular' things, you said, not the  _other_ — the magic… but I thought she was just being kind, I thought she was your friend, from work or something."

"I wanted you to think that," Tina admitted, "I thought it might be easier for you to talk to her, that way… but I suppose I thought you figured the truth out, at least once you were a little older. Helen took our testimony, and helped me file the correct reports — that was here in London, love, remember it was after we moved? That's why you didn't come across them in Blackburn."

She made a soft, concerned, little noise, and shifted her hand briefly to his forehead, as if checking for a temperature; when she removed it, she wring her hands together, briefly.

"It's in the files. Brandon's not — he was served papers, Gerry, he's not to have any contact with you  _or_  your brother, or at least he wasn't when you were underaged, and he  _knows_  that. He knows he could have been arrested for even writing you a single letter without my permission."

" _What?_ " Gerald's head shot up. "I — are you serious?"

Tina nodded. "I suppose," she said, a bit bitterly, "That he must have decided that  _regular_  laws don't apply to him; it certainly wouldn't be the first time…"

"A Mug — sorry, a regular prison — wouldn't hold a wizard," Calista said softly, still rubbing Gerald's back reassuringly, still holding his hand. "Not for long, anyway — it's pretty common knowledge in the w— erm, on our side of things."

"Then I suppose that's why he didn't care," Tina said quietly, "Or perhaps he gambled on the possibility that the boys wouldn't know about it. I don't know about — about what you're saying, whether he'd simply escape, but I know they'd have picked him up if was reported; Helen assured me of that."

"I — I don't — I can't believe it," Gerald murmured, and then: "Why didn't you  _tell_  me?"

Tina's expression softened, and her hand went to her son's hair again.

"I suppose I was trying to protect you, as ironic as it sounds now," she said, sadly. "I just thought — you were so  _brave_ , going to the courts on your side and — and I hated myself, for refusing to admit for so long that he was hurting you boys, too. I felt useless, at first — you were just a  _child_ , and you were the one that saved us, and I… I suppose that once I woke up, and realised what we'd all been going through…"

She lifted her hand from her son, and brushed absently at her own cheek. "I wanted you to have a chance to  _be_  a child," she said, sadly, "I thought I was giving it to you, by letting you forget about him."

"I couldn't possibly forget," Gerald said quietly, "Not for a minute; not ever."

"I should have known," Tina said quietly. "I can't, either."

They were quiet for a minute; Gerald's shoulders shook again, a few more times, and even though she wanted to comfort him, it occurred to her that he might just want a moment with his mother. She eased her hand off his back, intending to slip away, and give them a moment of privacy; but again, his arm tightened, seemingly unwilling to let her go.

" _Mon colibri_ ," he murmured, " _Reste, s'il te plaît…" Please, stay._

Tina's gaze shifted, resting on Calista again for a second, and then went back to her son.

"How long did the papers say he's been writing Terry?" she asked, quietly.

"I'm not precisely sure," Gerald ventured, "Since October, at least, I think."

Tina frowned; and then, once again, her gaze shifted.

"Calista," she said, "It's always been my understanding that your school — the… the magic school — only lets students come home for the holiday breaks; but it's after Easter break, and you're here, so I take it there must be some manner of… of exception, to that rule?"

"Erm," Calista said, slightly sheepish. "I'm not certain it's really an official exception, so much as it's the fact that my Dad is my Head of House."

"Is he Terry's, too?" she asked, hopefully, but Calista had to shake her head.

"No," she said, "Terry's in Ravenclaw like Gerald was, and I'm in Slytherin. I can ask my Dad, though, if there's anything he can do — perhaps he can speak with the Professor Flitwick, or the Headmaster."

"I'd appreciate it if you could," Tina said, and she lifted a brow to Gerald. "I imagine you agree, we need to have a conversation with your brother?"

Gerald nodded, quickly. "I — I did try," he said, "But I — I didn't tell him everything, and…"

"We will," Tina said, "We'll talk, all of us — and I'm going to get in touch with Helen, as well. I don't know exactly what I need to do to put an end to this before it begins, but she will."

Gerald hedged. "I — there's one thing, though," he said, anxiously, "Like Calista said — a regular prison won't be able to keep him long, even if they  _do_ arrest him."

Calista swallowed. "I think," she said, "That I might be able to help with that."

They both looked at her, questioningly. She set her jaw, and met Gerald's gaze.

"You're forgetting already," she said, "Someone in the courts owes me a favour."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus arrived nearly twenty minutes late to pick her up from Gerald's, and he was in such a foul temper when he did arrive, that Calista wondered guiltily if he knew, somehow, that she'd spent the extra time snogging Gerald in the stairway outside of his flat, where his mother wouldn't know what they were doing and have cause to ask any more extremely awkward questions.

He hardly said a word on the way to the Apparition point, and when they'd arrived at the castle, his mood had seemed to grow even darker.

"Dad?" she ventured, as they approached the castle gates. For once, the dementors were nowhere in sight. "Erm — are you cross with me for something?"

He glanced back at her. "No; do I have cause to be?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. It's not like that's ever stopped you before, though."

He grimaced. "We lost the Quidditch Cup."

"Oh. For a minute, I was worried it was something that actually mattered."

He cut her a look that made her immediately regret her words.

"Your opinion on the matter of Quidditch is well noted," he snapped, "But you  _may_  find that it matters to  _some_  people. Your cousin, for instance."

She felt a wave of guilt, and examined her father's expression carefully. Was it a pointed remark? Had Draco said something to him about her promise to watch the game?

He seemed to calm down slightly as they approached the front door of the castle, though.

"I don't like losing," he said, somewhat stiffly, and then he sighed, motioning for her to go through the doors first. "How was your endeavour, today? Did Gerald get what he needed from his mother?"

"More than he was looking for," she said, "I'll explain everything. Coffee?"

He nodded, and they traced the familiar path to his quarters more or less in silence. Once they were each seated at the little kitchen table with a piping mug of coffee, Calista explained everything, including her decision to use Umbridge's promised favour to ensure that whatever restrictions had been placed or  _would be_  placed on Brandon Boot in the Muggle world would apply to the wizarding world as well.

"I don't like it," Severus said grimly, surprising her, "And neither will Lucius, I expect."

"He offered to help," Calista pointed out, reasonably, "And then Gerald and I will  _both_  owe him something, which is probably half the reason for his offer in the first place."

"He offered to help you gain placement in an extremely influential office within the Ministry," Severus reminded her, "And to make political connections with the Boot family. I believe he expected you both to take him up on those  _precise_  offers."

Calista frowned. "So then, are you saying I can't ask him?"

Severus' mouth turned down, and suddenly it was bracketed with weary-looking lines; it struck Calista that her father looked nearly as wary these days as Professor Lupin, and she felt a mirroring frown find its way to her own face.

"I'm  _advising_ you to consider carefully," he finally said, "And to be certain any alternative options have been thoroughly explored; but you  _are_ of age, and this… this strikes me as one of those decisions that I'm probably supposed to let you make for yourself."

Calista blinked.

"Have you been Polyjuiced?" she asked suspiciously, "You  _love_  to tell me what to do."

Severus' frown deepened. "You're eighteen," he said quietly, "You'll graduate Hogwarts in a couple of months. I suppose I'm hoping you'll learn to follow my advice, rather than my orders, in the event that I might not always be close enough to enforce them."

"Don't say that," she said, immediately; she felt a sinking unease in her gut. Two months until she graduated; what if she never had cause to see this familiar kitchen table again, to sit across from him at it with her coffee and her confessions?

"Avoiding the truth doesn't make it any  _less_  true," he replied, "Surely you know that better than anyone, by now?"

"Maybe I'll be held back," she joked, but it came off hollow, and flat, and somehow made her feel immediately worse.

"Or maybe," he said, deliberately off-hand, "I'll take up a position at St. Mungo's, too; I daresay I'd be better paid."

"Yeah," Calista agreed, lifting her coffee mug to her lips, even though it was already empty, "Maybe — maybe one of those things will happen."

He nodded, and they both pretended not to understand that neither of those things were possible, and that neither of them quite wanted them to happen, anyway.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

On Sunday, Marcus Flint threw a fit in the Slytherin common room. Calista had just been with her father, having her Occlumency lessons, and she'd gone back to the common room hoping to read a book by the fire and give her wearied mind a rest only to find study chairs and books strewn about the normally orderly common room; the first thing she noticed was a cluster of nervous-looking first years cowering by the fireplace, and she drew her wand before she knew quite what was happening.

"It's your fault," Marcus bellowed, and Calista started; but he wasn't talking to her, at all. He was yelling at Hecate, who Calista realised belatedly was pressing herself against the back of one of the dark, high-backed chairs that hadn't yet been overturned.

"I didn't do anything," she screeched, voice unnaturally high, "You're the one who did something wrong; you're the one that  _dumped me_ , right before the most important match of the season — maybe it was your  _conscience_ that lost the match —"

"It wasn't the most important match of the  _season_ ," Marcus growled, fists clenching at his sides, "It was the most important match of my  _life_ , and you did  _too_  do something — you cursed me, I know you did! You're  _mental_  — you did something to my broom!"

"Really?" A familiar voice perked up, dripping with derision, and Calista sidled closer to her friend, Eva, who appeared largely unconcerned as she watched the drama unfold from one of the long, low sofas near the perimeter of the cavernous room, "How exactly did your broom have anything to do with Potter catching the Snitch, then? Because that's why we lost; our Seeker's rubbish."

Calista winced. Eva shrugged. "It's true," she said, while several sets of eyes fixed, suddenly, on her. "Maybe if you'd held actual  _tryouts_  for Seeker, instead of just giving it to the bloke with the rich Daddy in exchange for a bunch of brooms, we wouldn't keep losing — but hey, what do  _I_ know? I'm just a girl, and you haven't let one of  _us_ on the team since Kim Avery graduated."

"Watch it, Selwyn," Derek Logan said, sharply, from his place by Marcus' shoulder, "This isn't your business."

"I'll be the judge of that, thanks," Eva said tartly. Calista frowned, slipping her wand back into her pocket.

"Stop, everyone," she started to say, but Marcus was yelling again, and he easily drowned her out.

"There were  _three_  professional Quidditch scouts in the crowd yesterday, and you had to choose  _then_  to get your stupid revenge?" he howled, advancing on the chair where Hecate still huddled; Calista tensed, and her fingers moved towards her wand again, in case she needed to demonstrate her Freezing Charm.

" _I didn't do anything_!" Hecate screeched again, leaping to her feet.

"You're a liar!" he roared, seeming to take up half the common room by himself; Calista stepped back, without realising she was doing so, and for perhaps the first time, she thought she was beginning to truly see the version of Marcus that an eleven-year-old Gerald had been terrified of; the version that he had admitted he hadn't understood how she could have seen any other way.

"Your goddamn necklace was in my room again," he accused, fists balling up once more, "You fucked with my broom, or you fucked with  _me_  —"

"Well, no one's denying  _that_ ," Hecate snarked, "It's why you kept me around so long, after all — isn't that what you told me?"

Marcus moved in a flash, and so did another chair — it flew across the room and crashed against a wall, missing Hecate by a frighteningly slim margin; she shrieked again, and flinched, and Derek Logan laughed uproariously; beside him, so did Olivia.

"Erm," Eva murmured, by her side, "Now would be an excellent time to start Prefecting —"

Before Eva even had a chance to finish speaking, Calista had drawn her wand once more, and, for the second time, aimed it at Marcus —

" _Immobulus!_ "

He froze, mid-lunge; it was strikingly similar to the pose he'd been in the  _last_  time she'd done this, when Gerald had been his target, and that thought fueled her on.

"Marcus, what the hell is  _wrong_ with you?" she yelled, advancing on the group of them, him and Derek and Olivia, "You can't — you can't just attack someone — and you've ransacked the common room —"

She cast about for an appropriate reprimand; her mind was still reeling, and all she could think of to say was "Twenty points from Slytherin!"

In the stunned silence that followed, she shoved her wand back in her pocket, forgetting to release him from the spell. "And you can go and see your Head of House at once —" she growled, in response to the sudden chorus of whispers, "Yes,  _my father_  — and anyone who has a problem with that can go as well, he's got a fresh shipment of salamanders to be disemboweled, I'm certain he'd welcome the extra hands."

"Come off it —" Derek started, but it was Olivia's high shriek that carried, now:

" _Twenty points_?" she raged, "You're a worse traitor than Hecate; still determined to lose us the House Cup, too, are you?"

" _Me?_ " Calista felt a familiar rage, rising up and pushing against her skin, and for a moment she thought she understood the desire to throw chairs around, though she certainly wasn't about to act on it. " _I'm_  bent on losing us the House Cup? It's your precious Quidditch team that already lost us a hundred and fifty points for their idiotic stunt after the  _last_  Quidditch match — or have you conveniently forgotten about that?"

"It's not like it really matters, anyway," Eva snarked, "Dumbledore'll just give Gryffindor a thousand points on the last day of term anyway, when Potter and his friends — I dunno, catch Sirius Black, or whatever it is  _this_  year."

Olivia hissed something back at her, and the two of them started to argue — and then, someone at the crowd nervously pointed out that Marcus hadn't moved in several minutes.

"Damn it," Calista muttered, and she hurriedly drew her wand again, releasing him —

"Holy shite," George Spratt remarked, from the gathered crowd, "That rumour about her Freezing Charm really  _is_  true."

"My life is fucking  _over_ ," Marcus wailed, over the crowd, lurching his way towards another chair; thankfully, he didn't hurl this one, but instead leaned on its back, wrapping his massive fists so tightly over the knobs at the top that he seemed fit to break them off. "They didn't even want to  _talk_  to me, I'll never get drafted now —"

He had looked up, and his eyes fell on Calista.

"You," he said, darkly, and she felt a strange flip of foreboding in her gut; then Marcus straightened, and more triumphantly:

" _You_. You can prove she's lying — prove she sabotaged me."

Calista felt her heart skip a beat, and then pick up speed.

"No," she said, quickly, "No, Marcus, I can't —"

"Yes, you can," he insisted, voice rising, as he gestured madly to where Hecate was wisely trying to slip, unnoticed, out of the common room; she had almost made it, when Marcus looked wildly between her, and Calista. "You can do your legiliwhatsis thing —"

It felt like a yawning, gaping pit had opened in her gut; she felt sick, and dizzy, and — and oh gods, the entire common room was watching, now… she had to play this off…

With a massive, wrenching effort, she fought her weariness and reached hastily past the barriers that lived, always, around her mind; in the time it took to blink, she tapped into the core of her strength, into the discipline of a hundred weekend lessons in her father's office, practising the one thing she now desperately needed to hide, and she forced her expression into one of calm disdain.

"I guess you are as thick as everyone says, after all," she said evenly, "Either that, or you've taken one too many bludgers to the head and gone raving mad. You're speaking nonsense."

A few people sniggerred. Marcus' browns knit together, angrily, and he started to open his mouth again —

Surreptitiously, with her wand hand, she hurriedly traced a rune, the very first one that she had  _ever_  researched, when she'd been sitting in the stands of the very first Quidditch match she'd ever been dragged to watch, eyes on her research rather than on the pitch.

 _Confuto_.

She mouthed the name of the rune silently. She had no idea if it would work; she'd discovered the rune that had been at the heart of the original ritual, the one with the dance-like ritual and the drop of banshee's blood, and indeed it had been this very rune and this very spell that had set off her entire body of runic research, more than six years ago now, but ironically, she'd never actually attempted to  _use_  it as part of a runic spell.

She prayed it would work; a proper Silencing Charm was bound to draw suspicion to Marcus' allegations, and thanks to him, she didn't see another option, unless she was prepared to try and cast a Memory Charm, which was horribly dangerous and complex and which she'd never once in her life attempted, on her whole goddamned house.

 _Confuto_. She traced it subtly a second time, in quick succession, for good measure, and held her breath.

Marcus' mouth moved, but no sounds came out; a flurry of relief danced across her mind, but she didn't have time to indulge it.

"Leave Hecate alone now," she said, loudly, as if that were her only concern, as if her actions now had nothing to do with what he'd started to say about  _her_. "Go to my father's office."

She ushered him out; mercifully, the corridor was empty. Hecate had retreated back into the crowd, when Marcus had started to go move towards the door.

"Are you fucking  _mental_?" she hissed, as soon as the door had swung shut behind them, "You can't — you can't  _tell_  people about that! And… and while we're at it, you can't just throw chairs around the common room!"

His mouth was still moving silently; his eyes went wide, with something between panic and rage, but like all of her runic spells, this one was fairly short-lived; he started up again, abruptly, mid-bellow:

" —fuck?! What did you  _do_  to me?"

He started, at the sudden, booming sound of his own voice, and then his brows knit again, and his voice lowered to a wounded growl.

"You've got to — you  _have_  to help, you have to prove she's lying, she sabotaged me — I can tell the scouts, and they'll give another shot — do it, do the leg—"

"Fine!" Calista yelled, hastily, over the rushing tide of her own rapidly rising panic; she cut him off, with the force of her own voice. "I'll do it!"

He stopped, looking both surprised and relieved. He took a breath. "You… you will?"

"Only if you shut up,  _now_ ," she said, grimly, "And come with me."

His expression shifted again, going soft and hopeful, and in that instant he was almost cute — in one second, he reminded her of the way she'd once managed to see him, and then in the next, she saw nothing but a big, hopelessly dumb puppy, and it seemed doubly fitting when he began to trail after her, agreeable and quieted at last. She felt a brief, sharp twinge of guilt for what she was about to do.

They were almost there by the time he realised where they were going.

"Hey," he said, suddenly suspicious, "Why are we going to your father's office?"

"I'm going to ask him to send for Hecate," she said, evenly; she met his gaze, trying to look as sincere as possible, and ignoring the writhing snakes that had suddenly taken up residence once more in her gut. "He'll do it; he's more upset than anyone that we lost the match today."

Marcus searched her face, and even though she knew he was hardly a discerning audience, it unsettled her quickly he accepted her words for the truth, and nodded, satisfied.

Her father wasn't in his office; she pulled open the secondary door that led to his quarters, not quite willing to leave Marcus alone in case he did figure out what she was up to, after all; she kept one eye on him, and called down the corridor, cautiously:

"Dad?"

He appeared, almost immediately, from his study, a questioning look on his face.

"Dad," she said, carefully, all too aware of Marcus' lurching presence behind her, "I need you to come and help us with something — Marcus and I…"

His eyes narrowed; swiftly, he came to her, crossing the small corridor in a matter of steps, and then the three of them were in his office. The door to his quarters snapped shut behind him.

"Precisely  _what_  is the meaning of this?" he asked; Marcus shifted, and Calista exhaled.

"Marcus just — he just tried to announce to the entire Slytherin common room that I'm a legilimens," she said, quietly, "I — I'm here to ask you if you can modify his memory, so he doesn't remember that I am one."

" _What?_ "

Calista jumped; both of them had yelled, at once. It was Marcus who won out:

"You said you were going to help! You  _tricked_  me!" he bellowed; he made to leave, hastily, but Calista was half-expecting it, and her fingers moved, swiftly.

 _Subsisto._ For the third time, he was frozen mid-lunge. It might have seemed comical, had her heart not been pounding so hard, the snakes wriggling so fiercely inside her.

"Yes, I did, Marcus," she said, heavily, turning to face him properly, and meet his gaze at last. "I did trick you."

Something occurred to her, something that sent a funny chill along her spine, and she voiced it:

"Maybe the Sorting Hat  _was_  right, all along," she murmured, "Maybe I really  _do_  belong in Slytherin."

The charm wore off; Marcus stumbled, eyes going wide as he righted himself, narrowly avoiding stumbling headfirst into the wall behind him.

"I won't — I won't say anything else about it," he mumbled,"The — the legilijunk — I won't, I promise."

Calista frowned, studying his face carefully; she saw what she needed to, and the snakes shifted again, solidifying into something that was more still, more calm, and a thousand times heavier.

"I'm afraid," she said, and the words hurt, as she forced them past the quickly forming lump in her throat, "That I just don't believe you."

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " It was Severus, this time, that cast, and though the spell was different, the effect was the same; Marcus was frozen in place, eyes wide with fear.

"I did warn you," he said, from somewhere over her shoulder, in a deceptively casual tone, "That you ought to be more selective, in revealing the nature of your abilities."

"Yes," she agreed grimly, "You warned me  _after_  I'd already told him. After I thought I owed it to him, to explain…"

"And?" her father prompted, in almost precisely the same tone he'd had scarcely an hour earlier, when she'd sat across the kitchen table from him, discussing their lesson calmly. Marcus' panicked eyes glinted in the dark. "What have you learned?"

She studied Marcus, again,  _really_  studied him; the heaviness of his brow, the taut, hulking shape of his muscled form, the nose that had gone crooked from taking — as she'd accused — quite a few Bludgers to the face. She looked in his eyes, panicked now, but she'd seen such a range of other expressions within them often enough to see them clearly, now, in her memory. He wasn't all bad; even after what she'd seen in the common room, she knew that. But he certainly wasn't capable of being trusted to hold her secrets; at least not this particular one.

"I suppose," she said, turning her face from Marcus to meet her father's gaze instead, "I've learned a lot recently, about the cost of secrets."

He nodded, evidently waiting for her to go on.

"The cost of… the cost of keeping them," she said, and she felt her heart lurch, as she recalled the pain on Gerald's face the day before, when he'd shown her the scar on his arm and finally confessed everything to his mother… and the pain that had twisted up her own gut, for so long, before she'd finally been able to tell him the truth about  _her_  scars.

She glanced back at Marcus, and exhaled. "And… and the cost of giving them away, too easily."

Severus nodded, grimly satisfied, as if she'd correctly identified a Potions ingredient. He raised his wand in Marcus' direction, but he didn't cast immediately; instead, he looked to Calista, as if for confirmation.

She held her breath, feeling her nerves vibrate and her gut constrict. This wasn't fair… she knew it wasn't fair, but it wasn't just  _any_  secret that he'd almost divulged, and that he was almost certain to let slip again; it was one that was dangerous in the wrong hands, not only for herself, but for her  _father_ , and that was what made her nod, just once, but with utmost finality.

Her father didn't cast the spell, though; instead, he lowered his wand.

"How would you like to learn to perform a Memory Charm?" he asked her, quietly.

"I — I can't," she said, immediately, "It could go horribly wrong if I make a mistake —"

"You won't make a mistake," Severus said, matter-of-factly; Marcus' eyes rolled with panic.

"I can't," she said, again, and Severus leaned against the edge of his desk, deceptively casual, wand still lowered.

"You'd be able to take a more targeted approach than I would," he pointed out, reasonably, "You know exactly what you told him, and when; you can use legilimency to find and gather those memories, and then I'll show you how to use the Memory Charm to erase them; it's more nuanced, but the end result is actually kinder, and far less likely to cause any — ah —  _collateral damage_  to the mind."

Severus' mouth shifted into a disdainful sneer, as he added: "And I think we can agree, Flint here can't afford much collateral damage."

She frowned. As uncomfortable as she was with the idea, it did make a certain sort of sense, and she'd heard enough horror stories about Memory Charms gone wrong to realise that her father was probably right; the less they could erase, and the more targeted the Charm was, the safer it would be.

"All right," she said "I'll… I'll try it."

Her father nodded, and gestured for her to step in front of Marcus. She did so, steeling herself for the guilt she knew she'd feel when she met his panicked gaze again. It didn't help; she still felt awful.

She took a breath, and lifted her wand.

" _Legilimens_ ," she said.

It had been a long time since she'd used her wand for legilimency, against her father and she'd never really done it properly like this against anyone else; she wasn't initially prepared for the pull she felt, so tangible and pervasive that she actually took a physical step forward; it was as if his eyes had opened up into gaping black holes, leering tunnels, and she was standing just at the edge of them, feeling practically reeled in by the undulating tide of thoughts and memories.

"Merlin," she murmured, noting the utter lack of barriers, of curtains or films or windows or  _any_  of the defences she was used to encountering, "You really  _don't_  have the slightest ability to defend your mind, do you?"

It took her several seconds to get over the initial pull of his mind, the incessant rushing of his thoughts, and then she took a mental step forward.

Memories began to eddy and swirl around her, like streams of bright colour and sound. She caught glimpses, snatches of conversation, here and there, and tried to discern where to begin.

"Think of a shared relevant memory," Severus coached, over her shoulder, "And look for the echo of it in his mind; like seeking the reserves of your own strength, do you recall? Like calls to like."

She nodded, and tried to think of precisely when she'd told him; instead, she ended up remembering one of the first times she'd accidentally read his mind. They'd been in the Owlery — it must have been only the second or third time they'd gone there together, because they'd both been a lot smaller, and she recalled that she'd had absolutely no idea what she was doing —

Just as her father predicted, a memory lit up within Marcus' mind, the mirror to the one she'd recalled. She reached for it, seeing it from his point of view, looking down at her.

—

 _He reaches for her clumsily; it's hard, like this, standing right in front of her and trying to seem interesting enough, charming enough. He knows he's supposed to come off like he knows what he's doing, that's what his dad's always told him, but it's_ hard _, because he doesn't; he just knows that he likes this girl, likes teasing her and joking with her and he_ really _likes kissing her, even though he has no idea what he's doing, yet._

_He's going to have to take her flying, again; that's where he knows how to be. That's where he can seem cool and in control, and it's perfect because he can touch her without having to feel so awkward; he can wrap his arms around her waist, and stick his nose right in her hair, when it streams out behind her; he thinks of all of this while he kisses her, and then —_

_Ah, shit. He's mucked it up, already. She's looking at him like he just farted, or something, even though he's pretty sure he didn't, and she's backing away. He lifts his hands off her neck._

' _Er… Calista? Did I… did I do something wrong?'_

' _N-no,' she says, but he's pretty sure he did, even if he doesn't know what it was. He might've been kissing her a bit too hard. He says as much, apologising awkwardly._

' _No, it's not that,' she protests, 'I was just — just thinking about something from class…'_

 _Ah, shit; he really_ did _muck something up, if she's thinking about that bloody class again. Unless it's not the class… what if it's someone_ in _the class? What if it's that blasted Weasley? He resists the urge to growl; his dad keeps telling him girls don't like that, and even if Calista's pretty different from other girls, she does seem to get pretty peeved whenever he says junk about her annoying swotty friends._

—

Calista tugged at the memory, feeling a strange tangle of emotion back in her own mind that she decided she would have to sort out later; she concentrated on unravelling the memory from the others that surround it, carefully untangling its threads from the threads of several others. Most of them had to do with her; she could tell that much,  _feel_  that much, without even looking at them.

Even though she was here, now, in his mind, she still felt that she should try to pry as little as possible; she reminded herself grimly to just get what she'd come for, and get out, so she could perform the Charm and get this over with.

She cast about in her own mind, trying to remember the next time it had happened; as soon as she did, she saw his memories light up again, guiding her to his version of the same day.

There were perhaps a half dozen such memories, and she recalled each of them in turn, carefully extracting his memory from among the others it was connected to. In each of them, they had grown a little bit older, and — and, as time went on, she saw their individual recollections of the memories drifting further and further apart from each other. She felt an odd, pulling feeling in her chest. She'd known, even at the time, that they'd been on different pages; she had never realised that they'd been reading completely different books.

It stood out more and more starkly as she plucked out one memory after the other; she found the one where she'd confessed what she could do, and where she'd been afraid of violating his innermost privacy, of uncovering some horrible, dark secret or destroying his trust, he'd been — well, he'd been concerned about two things: whether she could read his most  _intimate_  thoughts, and whether she had any idea how much he hated her 'annoying' friends.

She reached a particular memory, one that she knew was near the end of the road, and paused; she was certain that he wasn't aware, in this one, that she'd read him - she'd become expert and concealing her accidental slip-ups, by then — but the memory,  _her_  memory of it, still made her squirm uncomfortably when she revisited it.

They'd been kissing in the Owlery, perhaps a month before they'd ended things altogether; she'd already told him several times  _no_  when he'd asked about taking a particular physical step forward, but he'd swiftly and cunningly slipped his hand under her shirt and under her bra, anyway, and then — then she'd been confused, and uncertain how she felt about it, until she tried to squirm away and he misinterpreted and redoubled his efforts, and then she'd  _needed_ him to stop for a minute, so she could think — and then, she'd met his gaze, and seen precisely the sorts of things that were the reason she'd been nervous about what was happening in the first place, and her discomfort had rapidly intensified, turning into a curious and unsettling war between her body's  _physical_ response, and her mind's  _emotional_  one; she'd only had a panicked second to wonder how she could put an end to it without offending him when she'd gotten rescue from the most unexpected, and unlikely source — Gerald's owl, Uruz, who had flown in through the window and promptly and unceremoniously defecated on Marcus' head.

She hesitated now, touching upon Marcus' version of the same memory; she didn't really  _want_  to view it from his point of view, not only because it would be a violation of his privacy, but  _also_  because she was no longer naive enough not to realise what it would be like from his point of view. She ought to leave the memory alone… she was fairly certain he hadn't been aware, that time, that she'd read his thoughts, and that was what she was really here for…

Except, one of her  _own_  memories was calling to her, now; the day, several months ago, in the empty Defence classroom when Marcus had made crude comments and implications about the sorts of things that he and Hecate did and which he'd pointed out gleefully that she and Gerald were  _definitely not doing_ , and she recalled the way that he'd tried to poison her against Gerald, and suddenly she was extremely cross, and she decided in a fierce rush of pettiness that she really didn't  _want_  Marcus to have this memory of her, anymore, whether or not he knew that she'd read him. Decisively, she gathered it up with the rest, for extraction. She felt a sharp, smug tug of satisfaction; she'd never given him permission to actually touch her like that, and now she was revoking his permission to  _remember_ it; it seemed fitting, even if she knew full well that it was morally grey, at best.

At last, she reached the last of the applicable memories, or at least the last one before today; their argument in the dark, stiflingly warm Divination classroom that had ultimately turned into her breaking up with him. It had been the first and only time she'd ever been in that classroom. She called out with her own memory, and then she saw his light up in response; she reached for it, hesitantly.

—

_He's a bit miffed that she hasn't apologised for their last fight, but she gets snarly like that. She gets snarly whenever he suggests taking her flying, too, and that sucks, because it's always been one of his favourite things to do with her. He wonders why she doesn't like to go, anymore; maybe she never really got over being afraid. He doesn't get what she's afraid of, but it's always worked out fine for him, because he can hold onto her, up in the air — and he's got all these tricks, he knows a certain way to dive that 'accidentally' knocks her right up against him, and that's always fun even if it does make him a bit crazy because it's not like he can do anything about the way it makes him feel, when they're up in the air._

_He lights up with a sudden grin when they get to the Divination classroom, even though he had hoped to take her flying again today after all, before he'd realised it was going to rain all day. He forgets all about that, now; it's dim and warm in the classroom, and he's thinking all these pouffes don't seem so stupid after all, now that he's up here with his girl. Maybe she will apologise for their fight, after all — maybe she'll apologise with something a lot more fun that just talking._

_It doesn't really look like it, though, at least not at first. She looks like she thinks the chair's going to bite her ass, when she sits down; she looks stiff and uncomfortable, and he sighs when she starts talking about how weird the classroom looks or whatever. He drops into a chair nearby, and resigns to whatever it is she wants to talk about before he can get to kissing her._

_It's homework; bloody hell, it's_ always _homework, with her. It had seemed cute, at first, but now that it's day in and day out, and she ignores him basically all the time, it's really starting to get on his nerves; not least of all because it reminds him of that blasted Weasley that he's still pretty sure she's supposed to be with, instead of him, and he doesn't want to let her go, even if she is a bit boring sometimes, because she's still basically the only girl he's ever liked, and she's still_ really _hot when she's angry, so long as it's not at him._

_He tries to think of something he can say about homework that isn't completely boring. Finally, he thinks of something, and he tells her about that aresehole Boot, about taking the piss out of him in class and scaring him, that time, by pretending he was going to knock him down the stairs._

' _That's not funny,' Calista says, and he wants to roll his eyes; she never thinks anything's funny, anymore. It occurs to him, now that he's thinking of it, that it could be even worse than it already is: it could be_ Boot _that she was hanging around with instead of Weasley, reading Arithmancy books and doing homework or whatever. He just barely has time to think about how much that would boil him, when she fucking says it:_

" _Gerald's my friend, and even if he weren't —"_

 _He doesn't hear the rest of what she says, doesn't give a shit what it is. He leaps to his feet; the blood's pounding in his temples, the way it does whenever he gets really good and angry, but it's more than just that; he feels his stomach drop out. He should have known; he should have fucking known, as soon as he'd found out she had Prefect stuff with that scrawny buggering know-it-all in the goddamned_ library _of all places._

" _Excuse me?" he snarls, and that makes him feel better, giving in to being cross with her helps cover up the other stuff, the fear and the whole holy-shite-when-is-she-gonna-realise-I'm-not-her-type thing. He hates that thing. "What the hell do you mean 'Gerald is your friend'?"_

 _Then it comes out that she's been friends with that arsehole since_ last year _, and it doesn't get any better from there. He tries to explain how it makes him feel when Boot and his friends snigger at him in class for getting the answers wrong, but he's sort of afraid to tell her how badly he's been doing in school, now that he knows she's got_ nine _bloody O.W.L.s. He misses remedial Transfiguration; it was great, because for once_ he'd _had the chance to come off clever around her, and plus it was real cute when she'd get all cross at a spell that wasn't working out, but now she's just like one of those blasted Ravenclaws, all N.E.W.T. classes and Prefect meetings and she's the one doing the tutoring, and he can't ever tell her but sometimes he wishes she stayed exactly like she was in third year. She used to get in fights and she used to worry about failing exams, and she just used to be more_ fun _. It's not the first time it's occurred to him that he probably wouldn't even like her, if he'd just met her now; but he doesn't want to think like that, he wants to keep hoping she'll go back the way she was._

 _He lights the fire in the room, mostly just because she's insisting he should apologize to Boot and_ that's  _not going to happen, and he's got to move, got to do_ something _physical, or he's going to throw a chair or start shouting, and he knows that would scare her, because of her nutter Mum, and he's been trying to be good about that. He's been trying to be good about a_ lot _of things, but she doesn't even notice._

_The low, red light from the fire reflects off her Prefect badge,and he balls his fist up. He hates that blasted badge; after she got it is when she really started to change._

_Now she's going on about who started what, as if that makes a difference — and then she tells him that she asked Boot to stop taking cracks at him, and that makes him feel even worse, because he shouldn't need his_ girlfriend  _to stick up for him, not against that blasted little git; and plus that means she's probably heard the stuff Boot says, and he can't stand when her swotty friends remind her that they think he's stupid._

_It's all spinning out of control, like a cursed Bludger, and then he gets a brilliant idea. She's so goody-goody now, and she always whines about not wanting to abuse her Prefect badge or whatever whenever he asks her to do anything fun; he knows how to turn her against Boot._

" _Boot's still just as much of a prick as he ever was," he tells her, "Worse, now that he's Head Boy. he takes cracks at me all the time - and he takes house points for no reason, and he threatens to have me expelled!"_

_Her jaw drops, and he feels a surge of satisfaction in his gut; he wonders if she'll be cross enough to hex Boot, and even though he was just miffed at the idea of a girl standing up for him, he likes the idea of the whole school knowing Boot got his arse handed to him by a girl enough that he figures he'll let it slide._

" _Yeah," he adds, deciding that's exactly what he wants her to do, after all. "And he gives me all these detentions…"_

 _Somehow, she knows he's lying, and by the time he remembers about that creepy legilistuff, it's already too late; now_ she's _the one that's angry, and he's fucked, now; he never lies to her, never, and it looks like he's picked a pretty bad time to start._

 _He tries to explain. "I didn't really think, all right?" he admits, "I was just so angry that all this time I didn't even know that my_ girlfriend _was friends with my worst enemy, all right?"_

_She's scrambling away from him, now, the way she always does when they fight and he's the one that's right. When he screws up, she sticks around to point it out — but when it's her that's not being fair, like now, and like all the times she gets mad at him basically for wanting exactly what he's supposed to want, to have sex with the girl he's been dating for two and a half years, that's when she runs away._

" _Well," she says now, and she's quiet, she's not scowling so maybe she's not really as peeved as he thought. "You don't have to worry about that anymore."_

_He feels a rush of relief; it's not exactly an apology, but he can work with it. As long as it means what he's pretty sure it does._

" _So you won't — you're not going to be his friend anymore?"_

" _That's not what I'm saying," she says, and suddenly his stomach's funny, again._

" _Calista, then what —" but goddamn it, he knows._

_It's funny; people make it out like being prepared for something will make it hurt less, but that's bollocks. Like getting run over by the Hogwarts Express won't spew your guts out all over the track just because you saw it barreling towards you, first. That's exactly what it feels like, when she says it:_

" _I'm saying that I'm not going to be your girlfriend, anymore."_

" _Calista," he manages, "Wait — please —"_

_He stares after her, but she doesn't look back, not even once. It will be a few months before he realises he's not even seeing now-Calista, when he watches her go; he's not seeing the stupid shiny badge and all that stuff she puts on her face, and that quiet way she walks now, like she's a regular, boring, grown-up kind of girl like Olivia. He's seeing a cute third year girl who worries about her nose being too big and threatens to hex people and isn't scared of mice and doesn't get the point of flowers, and it feels like his heart's being trampled by a herd of thestrals, because now he knows for sure that he's never gonna see that girl again._

—

There were a few other loose ends, and Calista felt almost mechanical as she sought them out; it was as if her own mind, her own thoughts, were shutting down, overwhelmed by Marcus' — or maybe it was just that she didn't want to think, anymore.

She pulled apart the memory of the scene that had just played out in the common room; it was difficult, but she did manage to pull just a few threads loose from that tapestry, took the piece where he'd seen her and remembered her ability, and where he'd almost announced it to the whole House. She recalled her father saying that the more recent a particular memory was, the easier it was to modify and pull apart, and so, she supposed it had been right to bring him here right away. She felt her stomach clench, when she had that thought; the truth was, nothing seemed  _right_  about any of this, but it was already almost finished, and she didn't have the option, now, of going back. Marcus' terror-filled eyes told her  _that_  clearly enough.

Finally, she sifted through the forefront of his mind, the place where surface thoughts and short-term memory lived together, and she plucked away everything that had happened since she'd followed him out into the corridor, and tricked him into coming here.

"All right," she said, through clenched teeth, once she had confirmed that all of the relevant memories were gathered together in one corner of his mind, "I've got them all."

Severus stepped forward, so they were shoulder-to-shoulder.

"You know the incantation," he said, "But since this is a very targeted removal, and since it's your first time casting, I recommend creating a barrier between what you're erasing and the rest of his mind; you can drop your own, and borrow from them for a moment, if you need to."

There certainly wasn't anything she could use, in Marcus' mind, to protect it; no mental door she could close, no flimsy spectral curtain. She nodded, and though she didn't entirely drop any of her barriers, she did siphon a chunk of her own strength away from her first, her outermost barrier; instinctively, her reserves rose up, filling in the gaps. She recalled how, once, it had seemed nearly impossible to plug the gaps. Now, it was second nature.

She let the energy borrowed from her barriers wrap around the cluster of memories she'd extracted, a glimmering cocoon, and then she took a deep breath.

"You've separated this, out, too, correct?" Severus murmured, "What's happening now?"

"Yes."

He nodded his approval.

"Go on, then," he said, "When you're ready."

Her fingers tightened on her wand; she realised they were sweaty, and her palms were clammy. She wanted to close her eyes, to hurry and be done with it, and then to erase her  _own_  memory of having done it, but she knew that wasn't how this had to work; it was a lesson, and she had to learn it properly, or she might make another mistake, that could lead her down this very same road again.

She forced herself to look into Marcus' eyes, to see not only the fear that rolled wildly there, now, but all of the other things she knew were there; the anger, the jealousy, and the pettiness for certain, but also the kindness, and the curiosity, and the confusion of a boy who couldn't understand why his best-friend-turned-girlfriend had gone and grown up without him, and blamed him for not catching up to something he'd never really been aiming for, anyway.

"I'm sorry, Marcus," she said, and she knew he wouldn't remember that she'd said this when she was done, but she hoped he'd understand, now, for a few seconds at least, that she really and truly meant it. "I really am."

She lifted her wand; his pupils went wide, and she understood his fear, possibly even more than he did, because she knew what it was like, to know that someone else had power, even for an instant, over the one thing that was  _always_  supposed to belong only to you: your own mind.

" _Obliviate!_ " she said, directing the spell carefully to the separated bundle of memories; her cast was more powerful than she'd intended, and she could see it ricocheting off the barrier she'd erected behind it, to protect the rest of his mind; if it hadn't been there, Merlin only knew what else he would have lost.

Her father flicked his wand, too, releasing Marcus from the Full-Body Bind, and all at once, Marcus' expression cleared. His features relaxed, and the fear drained out of his eyes, replaced with a puzzled look.

"How did I get here?" he wondered, aloud, "I was — I was fighting with Hecate, and then…" he glanced towards Calista, and narrowed his eyes, voice slipping into a growl, " _You_  took points away, and now I'm here."

"Calista brought you to me for detention," Severus said, and Calista envied the cool, unconcerned tone he managed; her insides were clenching and rolling, and she didn't know if she could manage to match his façade, just now. "What have you done now, Flint?"

"I was just —" Marcus furrowed his brow; she saw him consider, saw him reaching into his mind for an answer. For a moment, her heart nearly stopped; had she mucked it up, after all? Had she taken more than she'd meant to, despite the barrier of protection she'd lent him?

"I was cross with Hecate," he muttered, "For messing with my broom, and costing us the match — I know she did, sir."

"I had the misfortune of watching that match from the front row of the stands," her father remarked wryly, "And I saw quite a lot if things go wrong, but your broom didn't appear to be one of them."

"The scouts were watching," Marcus said, aggrieved, "And we lost — they're not gonna draft me, now…"

"Then I suppose you'll play reserve on a second-rate team for a few years before going professional," Severus said, snapping and dry, "Like every other fool who flies around on a broomstick for a living."

Marcus blinked, and hunched his shoulders. "I guess," he muttered, resentfully; Calista's stomach was still turning over inside of her, even though it appeared that she had gotten the extraction, and the Memory charm right, after all.

"S'always you, isn't it?" Marcus said, suddenly, and she realised he was looking at her.

"What are you talking about?" she made herself say; she thought it would come out like a whisper or a croak, or maybe she'd even vomit all over both of them, that was certainly what she  _felt_  like — but to her surprise, her voice came out every bit as cool and unruffled as her father's had.

"Every time I'm about to do something stupid," he said, "You make me stop."

"I do?"

He nodded, knitting his brow. "I was getting real steamed just now, at Hecate, and at pretty much everyone, and you made me come here instead of — whatever I was gonna do. And last time, when I got kicked off the team — I mean, that was kind of your fault, but you kept me from storming off in the middle of the night, and there was that time you stopped me from fully pounding Boot's face in—"

Calista felt a flash of anger, lighting up against the skin of her forehead, and she couldn't believe that he could manage to make her so brassed off again, so quickly —

He smirked. "Guess that was mostly selfish, though, you want him pretty, don't you?"

"You're an arsehole," she said, plainly and boldly, despite her father's continued presence by her shoulder; just like his asinine stunt, pretending to shove Gerald down the stairs, he didn't  _know_  why what he was saying was so awful, but that didn't stop her blood from pulsing in a particular heated staccato.

Marcus just grinned; and then, he cast a brief glance towards Severus, and it faded slightly.

"I'm just saying, you know," he finished, scuffing the toe of his trainer against the stone floor of her father's office. "It's a boring, shite thing to be good at if you ask me, but you're not half bad at this Prefect junk, after all."

Calista stared blankly, uncertain how to respond — but miraculously, somehow, the pressure in her stomach had faded, and the urge to be sick was passing. She wasn't certain if it was the anger or the compliment that had drive it away; perhaps, she reflected, it was the simple reassurance that despite what she'd just done to his mind, Marcus Flint didn't seemed to have changed, one bit.

"That will suffice, Mr. Flint," Severus said, flatly, and then: "You can take your leave; you'll serve your detention tomorrow evening, disemboweling toads — but I'm inclined to give you the twenty points back, provided you clean up the damage you caused in the common room, and aren't harebrained enough to cause any more."

Marcus gaped, as if Severus had just given him a present, or offered to adopt him.

"I — yes, sir," he mumbled, and then he scrambled out of the office, obviously afraid that Severus would change his mind if given the opportunity.

Calista waited until she knew he was really gone; then, she turned to her father, warily.

"Why did you give him the points back?" she asked, even though she knew; it was the same reason she'd apologised to him before erasing his memory, even though he would never know she had.

"We've already lost the Quidditch Cup," Severus groused, "I want a shot at the House Cup this year, at least."

Calista blinked, because it wasn't at all the answer she'd expected.

"Eva says it doesn't matter anyway," she remarked, "She says Potter's going to catch Sirius Black and get a thousand points from Dumbledore on the last day of term anyway."

Severus made a funny noise in his throat, and grimaced; and then, he shook his head, slightly, and reached a hand out, settling it on her shoulder.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, and she hadn't realised she'd wanted him to ask until he did.

She exhaled, and let her mask slip; the relief of dropping it made her feel a bit as if  _she_ was the one who'd just been released from a Body Bind Curse.

"Not awful," she admitted, "But not exactly good, either. I — performing the Memory Charm was different than I expected it to be. Stronger. I don't know how it would have turned out, if you didn't have me shield him…"

Severus swallowed visibly, and then he nodded, rather as if she had just confirmed an answer he already knew.

"None of it was like I expected," she admitted, "I've never — I've never had legilimency work for me quite like that, before; it wasn't just viewing a memory, or stringing a few thoughts together. It was like… it was like, for the time that I was in his mind, I…"

She blinked, and shivered. "I  _was_  Marcus," she admitted, "I felt like… like I was feeling, and seeing, everything exactly the way he felt it and saw it. And it was disconcerting, because I  _knew_  I could find anything I wanted to;  _take_  anything I wanted to."

She felt a queer little leap in her stomach again, but then he squeezed her shoulder, lightly, and it settled again. "I've never felt quite so… powerful," she admitted.

"Well." Severus' eyes glinted, in the half-light afforded by the single lit torch against the far wall, "There were several factors at play, you know."

She nodded. "I know it's stronger with my wand; that was different. And I know Marcus hasn't got even the faintest ability to guard his mind."

"Those are both true," Severus allowed, and he shifted, crooking his elbow and inclining his head, so that she took a half-step closer, and their eyes were level. "But I think you know what else I mean; you didn't want to hear it, when I told you, several months ago. Are you ready to hear it, now?"

Calista bit down on the inside of her bottom lip. Her stomach flipped again, and her heart thudded. Of course she knew, but admitting it —  _really_  admitting it meant that there were other, more difficult truths she would need to accept.

She would have to accept that she would feel it again, in a month or in a year or in ten years; the rising, stretching shadow of power, the realisation that she could cause serious and irreversible harm, that no matter how much she wanted to deny it, the potential for darkness, for destruction was  _always_ going to be part of her: part of her mind, part of her skin, part of her blood.

She was Bellatrix Lestrange's daughter, as much as she was Severus'. But she was  _also_  Amelia's friend, Penny's friend, Percy's friend; she was also Daisy's protector and Draco's example and Sofia's role model; she was also Gerald's  _colibri_.

"Yes," she said, quietly, keeping her eyes on her father's. "I'm ready to hear it."

"You're powerful, Calista," he said, quietly. "More so, even, than I think you understand."

She exhaled, feeling her breath tremble, even if the rest of her didn't.

"It's like the memory, isn't it?" she said; it wasn't really a question. She knew, but she still needed the confirmation. "It's part of me, now, and it can't be undone."

"No, Calista," her father said, gravely, "It can't be undone."

She nodded. "Then I suppose," she said, "It  _is_  like the memory after all."

His expression shifted, and his eyes asked the question even before his mouth did: "How so?"

"I've got to find a way for it to have purpose."


	20. Chapter 20

Every morning, Calista went to the Great Hall for breakfast — though, if she were being completely honest, she was really only there for owl post. When the stream of owls entered every morning, she stopped what she was doing, eyes lifting, searching for one of two familiar owls: her own, Lucerne, or Gerald's owl, Uruz.

On Wednesday, she was rewarded with the sight of a familiar, medium-sized grey owl, and she was so intensely focused on removing the letter from its leg that she hardly noticed that a second owl had flown overhead, and dropped something on her plate.

She unfolded Gerald's letter, immediately relieved to see a line of runes along the bottom of the page; it was a good sign, and it seemed doubly so when she recognised several of them from the half-translated passage in the front of the book he'd give her for her birthday, and they promptly made her blush. She forced herself to read the rest of the letter, instead of trying to translate the rest of the runes now — that would be for later.

_Mon beau colibri,_

_I know you are eager for news, and so I'll begin with what little I have; it is scant, but it is hopeful, and I have you to thank for that more than anyone. Terry is to be allowed to come home for the weekend, and Mum and I plan on telling him everything; there is more to tell that even I realised, but I won't need to do it alone. Mum was able to get in touch with Helen, and though she is no longer a police officer (she's retired) she remembers our case and is willing to offer advice, as well as to testify in court._

_That is the piece that frightens me now, if I'm honest; Mum and Helen think it's likely that this will go to court, even if my father doesn't file a suit after all. They say that I will need to testify, and so will Terry. I don't know how I will face that, again; I don't know if I can stand in a courtroom without reliving that day in the Wizengamot, when I felt so small and ineffective. Still, with the additional documents that were on file here in London, Helen says it's almost impossible that we will lose, if it does come to a hearing. For now, I'm trying not to worry about what comes_ after _that._

 _Now that I've given you my news, I'm eager to hear yours. How is your Patronus Charm coming along? Have you chosen an internship yet? It strikes me that, if you_ were _to accept a position within the Ministry, we could arrange to take lunch together; Chadwick and Mira do it all the time. But then, St. Mungo's is not so far from the Ministry, so perhaps we could make that work as well._

_Speaking of work, I have not forgotten my assignment, though I confess that much of my recent work is inadmissible, so long as you insist on holding me to your policy of no verse. J'aime les défis, mon cœur, mais je dois te dire qu'il me parait injustement difficile de devoir décrire une muse en prose._

Calista paused her reading, unable to keep a soft smile from curving up the edges of her mouth.  _I love challenges, sweetheart, but I must admit that it seems unfairly difficult to expect me to describe a muse in mere prose._  Merlin, it was corny, but if he'd been here, she didn't think she'd have been able to resist returning his banter with a clever, flirtatious translation assignment of her own.

She lowered her eyes, and nearly laughed aloud when she saw what he'd gone on to write.

_I've told you before, I think, that I like to imagine how you might respond, when you read my words, and now I imagine your eyes lighting up, and your mouth curving in that particular, alluring way it always does when you're about to flirt with me. I imagine you'd start speaking Latin — though, admittedly, it may be wishful thinking. Still, I imagine that if we were conversing right now, you might say something like: 'Cogitare sollicite, mea noctua. Uti novus ingenium,' and so I have thought carefully, and I will use creativity._

_I've translated a stanza from one of my poems into runes; as they're no longer arranged in proper verse, I think you'll find that I faithfully have met your criteria to the letter._

_I love you, Calista._

_Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

Uruz waited patiently for her to finish reading, and then nipped at her finger and hooted hopefully. She knew by now that he was hoping for a snack.

"No mice today," she murmured, fighting hard against the familiar heat that was creeping into her cheeks, "But I think we can arrange  _something_."

She smirked, and reached for her plate, where she knew she had one slice of bacon left. Instead of bacon, however, her fingers encountered the flat edge of an envelope. She frowned, peering around the owl, supposing her aunt and uncle must have sent her a letter, though she hadn't noticed any of their family owls streaming in. No one else she knew bothered with envelopes; her friends either simply rolled or folded the parchment over, like  _normal_  people.

She lifted the envelope, and felt her heart steart to race. It was very official-looking, and bore the seal of the Ministry of Magic. She heard a shriek of delight from one of the other House tables, and then became aware of a smattering of excited murmurs; she turned her head, glancing down the Slytherin table and then over to the Ravenclaw table; as far as she looked, every seventh-year was holding a similar sort of envelope: the results from the Matching Committee, a full week before she was expecting them.

She tore the envelope open with shaking hands; once he realised she wasn't paying attention to him anymore, Uruz helped himself to the remnants of her plate, now that she'd moved the letter out of his way.

_Dear Miss Snape,_

The letter began,  _Congratulations on your upcoming graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Based on a review of your qualifications, and any materials and feedback provided by the Ministry Internship Panel…_

She skimmed the contents of the letter; she had enough older friends that she knew the gist of what it contained;  _… these opportunities are offered pending your final expected N.E.W.T. exam scores… these matches were carefully considered and represent where the Ministry feels your personal contributions will be best received…_

Her eyes went to the bottom of the letter, to the list of positions she'd been matched to. There were four of them; that was a good amount. For a few seconds, she allowed herself a brief flicker of hope; she'd been told by her uncle, after all, to expect only two offers.

_Department of Magical Transportation, Apparition Test Centre, File Clerk._

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Wizengamot Administration Services, File Clerk._

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Wizengamot, Court Scribe._

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Improper Use of Magic Office, Junior Enforcement Agent._

She scowled and rolled her eyes with a sinking feeling of disappointment. Despite receiving two more of offers than expected,  _two_  file clerk positions seemed somehow more insulting than only one, and Court Scribe hardly sounded more interesting.

The Junior Enforcement Agent offer was something of a surprise; she suspected that the letters from Professor Flitwick and from Percy's father had something to do with that offer, and she  _was_  grateful to receive it, even though she knew full well that  _it_  was a glorified clerical position, too, consisting largely of mailing warning letters to underaged wizards who violated the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underaged Sorcery. Kim Avery had been offered the same internship in  _her_  seventh year, and had turned it down without a second thought.

Still, it  _was_  in one of the branches that Professor Flitwick had recommended she pursue, at least; if nothing else, there was that.

She started to fold the letter up with a thoughtful frown — she would have to discuss this with her father, and with Professor Flitwick, before she decided what to do. The Potions position at St. Mungo's, though not ideal, was still the most  _interesting_  offer she had, and she knew it would be the highest-paying offer by far. On the other hand, if the Junior Enforcement Agent internship had even the slightest chance of helping her on her way to the Experimental Charms Committee, then she'd gladly spend the next year affixing Ministry seals to form letters.

She rose, intending to go to the Charms classroom a few minutes early for her scheduled tutoring block so she could ask Professor Flitwick his opinion on the internships; but when she made to fold the letter and stuff it back into its envelope, she realised there was a second page, containing one additional offer, bringing her total up to a respectable five matches. She brought the second page closer, to read it:

_Office of the Minister for Magic, Office of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Junior Undersecretary._

Calista's skin felt suddenly hot, and she felt her limbs begin to vibrate with anger. She had  _told_  her uncle she didn't want to work for Umbridge; or rather, she'd implied it, and her father had told him outright. Not only was she still utterly unwilling to work with Umbridge, but now it appeared that she had lost the opportunity to ask for the favour she wanted on Gerald's behalf.

She stuffed both pages haphazardly back into the envelope, and picked up Gerald's letter from beside her plate, and put them both in her pocket.

"Sorry, Uruz," she said, for the owl was no looking at her expectantly, having cleared the remnants of her breakfast. "I don't have time to write back now."

The owl hooted again, and then, with a weary ruffling of his grey feathers, he took off.

"I can't  _believe_  you let that filthy owl eat off your plate," Olivia sniffed, arching her brow.

"You're right; I'll let him eat off yours next time," Calista retorted automatically; and then she turned and hurried out of the Great Hall, tracing a path that become as familiar as her own name.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus was in the Potions classroom, along with a handful of Hufflepuff first-years, though first period wouldn't start for another ten minutes. It was perhaps a mark of Severus' fearsome reputation that so many of them had arrived early; either that or it was a mark of some sort regarding the Hufflepuffs themselves.

"Dad?" she asked, quietly; she saw the nearest student, a fair-haired boy, look up and poke his friend, gesturing in her direction, and she suppressed a sigh. Even though she'd gotten  _used_  to the reactions of the other students — particularly the younger ones — upon finding out who she was, it didn't irritate her any less.

His gaze flickered over to her, and he frowned, running an inventory of her face, no doubt trying to gauge how serious her problem was.

"I just need a minute," she murmured. He nodded, and motioned for her to follow him into his office. Calista ignored the flurry of whispers that gripped the classroom in their wake.

She waited until they were safely in his office, behind a firmly closed door, to drop her façade, and then she brandished the envelope at him, complete with sloppily re-folded pages.

"I've got my internships," she said, darkly, as he took the pages, setting the envelope down on the desk.

He looked the first page over, and glanced over the top of it at her. "This is more or less what you expected, isn't it?"

"Look at the second page," she snarled, "Uncle Lucius ignored us — he went to Umbridge behind my back.'

He shuffled to the second page, and frowned. And then — maddeningly, calmly, he handed the pages back to her.

"Don't accept it if you don't want it."

Calista blinked. "That's not the  _point_. He wasn't supposed to ask her for this. I was going to ask her to help Gerald instead —"

Severus held a hand up, interrupting. "I thought we agreed that you were going to explore other options before considering that particular one."

"Yes, but —"

Severus cut in, a second time, impatiently. "And have you?"

"What? No, not yet. But now I  _can't_."

"Let's not mourn the loss of your last resort when you haven't explored any — ah,  _other_  resorts," he said, shrewdly. "I'm certain your uncle thought he was helping —"

"Yeah, himself," Calista muttered.

Severus' brow went up. "I don't doubt that you're correct," he said "But as I've said, you are under no obligations to accept the position; in fact, my understanding was that you'd decided on taking the job offer at St. Mungo's?"

"I don't know, this Enforcement thing might be better — I mean, it's not  _better_ , but Improper Magic is one of the place Professor Flitwick said I should apply, if I want a chance at being nominated for the Experimental Charms Committee some day. I still think you're missing the point, though, I already told Gerald and his mother that I'd be able to help them; you  _know_  how important that is."

Her father's expression twitched, forming a sly, snarky sort of smile, and that started her anger up again; he  _did_  know, didn't he, how much it meant to her to help Gerald? After all,  _he_  was the one who had convinced Gerald to let her help him in the first place, by performing legilimency on his father.

"I remind you, once more, that there are other options to be explored in that matter — do you forget, already, that  _I_ have offered to assist Gerald in any way that I can?"

Calista ducked her head, guiltily; the truth was that she  _had_  forgotten that, or at least, she'd somewhat discounted it. "No…"

"I'm glad to hear it," she said, in a tone that made it crystal clear that he knew damn well that she  _had_ discounted that bit. "Though you evidently have forgotten that I have no less than six classes to teach today; the first of which begins in approximately thirty seconds."

He straightened, and went to his office door, opening it but pausing at the threshold. She set the pages of her letter back down on his desk, unwilling to carry them around with her for the rest of the day. She saw his gaze flick, briefly, to the letter, and then back to her face.

"You are meeting with Filius on Friday afternoon, correct?" he said, apropos of nothing.

"Yes…" she replied, testily. "Why?"

The maddening, uninterpretable smirk was back, suddenly. "No particular reason," he said smoothly, and then: "Go to class."

He took his leave, when she didn't, letting the office door shut firmly behind him.

"I don't even  _have_  class now," she said, resentfully, to the closed door, "I have tutoring."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Professor Flitwick had asked Calista to come to the Charms classroom at two o'clock; when she'd asked, again, if she should bring any of her research materials, he'd only told her to bring her wand, which seemed strange, because of  _course_ she would bring her wand; she was a witch, after all, she carried it everywhere.

She decided to bring something with her, anyway: her Ministry letter. She hadn't yet had the chance to ask his opinion on the Improper Use of Magic internship; he hadn't been in the classroom on Wednesday when she did her tutoring, and during her Independent Study period, he'd been busy working with another student, and she'd been busy — admittedly — decoding Gerald's runic message, and then immediately regretting having done so in public. She'd had to pull out her History of Magic notes and read about the International Warlocks Convention of 1897 to stop herself from blushing and, all right, grinning like a fool, though she'd be damned if she admitted the latter bit to Gerald, lest he take it upon himself to send  _actual_  poetry.

She looked over the letter again, on her way to the Charms classroom, unable to suppress a scowl. She still didn't forgive her uncle for acting behind her back, nor her father for failing to take it seriously.

Speaking of her father — Calista stopped short, several paces short of the doorway to the classroom, eyes widening in surprise and then, immediately narrowing in suspicion.

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

"Come," he said, gesturing towards the half-open classroom door and utterly ignoring her question, "You're very nearly late."

"Don't you have a  _class_  now?"

"I let them out early," he said, and Calista's eyes widened in alarm.

"You did  _what_? What happened — is it Sirius Bl—"

"Calista," he interrupted, swiftly and sharply, "Stop talking; just trust me, and let's go."

She blinked, and obliged, pressing her mouth together and stepping towards the classroom, breath held. Something about this, all of it, smacked of the unusual.

"I would recommend breathing," her father murmured, and she let out her breath with a scowl.

"Dad, what…?"

He reached over her shoulder and pushed the door open, and then he moved his hand to the spot between her shoulder blades, guiding her gently but firmly into the classroom — and it was a good thing he did, because without his gentle pushing, she would have stopped short as soon as she'd crossed the threshold.

It wasn't just Professor Flitwick, waiting inside: there were two others, two men Calista had never seen before; at least, she  _assumed_  they were both men — one of them had a pair of twisting ivory horns erupting from his forehead. The other looked far less remarkable, with fair hair and an impatient expression; he was checking his watch when Calista arrived.

"Ah, Calista, good, good," Professor Flitwick said; he stepped forward, and gestured to her, introducing her to the two men.

"Gentlemen, this is Calista Snape, the young lady I've told you about; the one who wrote the article on runic charms. Calista, allow me to introduce Ignus Ivanforth —" he gestured to the man with the watch, "And Gilbert Wimple."

The horned man nodded politely, and extended his hand for her to shake; after only a brief, bewildered second, Calista obliged, taking his hand.

Flitwick flashed a grin, a wide grin that made him look pleased, and jolly, and a bit like he'd swallowed a canary. "Calista, these gentlemen are from the Committee on Experimental Charms."

She felt her heart skip, and her jaw come unhinged; before she could quite stop herself, she was shaking Gilbert Wimple's hand with a tad too  _much_ enthusiasm, and her loosed jaw was moving, seemingly of its own accord.

"Oh — it's so nice to meet you, Mr. Wimple — I do recognise your name, of course; I cited one of your articles in my research. Erm — not the piece I submitted to the journal, another one, on ancient rituals and their evolution into modern spellcraft practises, it was sort of a precursor —"

Her father's hand moved to her shoulder, and that was enough to still her mouth. She suppressed a flush of color, and let go of Mr. Wimple's hand.

"Erm," she finished, clearing her throat, "That is — it's an honour to meet you both."

Mr. Wimple did a poor job of hiding an amused, but not entirely unfriendly smirk; the other man, Mr. Ivanforth, just nodded tightly and checked his watch again.

"I've explained the matter of your — ah,  _unusual_  Ministry interview to Mr. Ivanforth and Mr. Wimple," Professor Flitwick said, "As well as your concerns over receiving unfair consideration for certain Ministry departments; they're aware, as well, of your desire to work with the Committee, eventually."

Mr. Wimple shook his head. "I can't believe they let Dolores on the interview panel; I thought they wanted to encourage students to join the ranks at the Ministry, not to drive them running the opposite direction —"

Mr. Ivanforth made a small noise of impatience. "You've made your opinion  _quite_  clear on more than one occasion, Gilbert; and I remind you  _again_  that it's not in the Committee's best interest to have one of our own blasting the Minister for Magic's Senior Undersecretary during budget season."

Mr. Wimple smiled sheepishly. "Quite right, Ignus. I apologise, once more." He turned his gaze back to Calista; she tried very hard to meet it, instead of gaping at his horns. "I'll get to the point then, I suppose — you'll be wondering why we're here."

Mr. Wimple's smile faded, and he was looking at her intently. "Filius sent your article to me, initially, and I passed it on to Una Junkett — she's editing the journal, these days, I'm sure you know —"

Calista nodded, eagerly; she'd read every issue of the Journal from cover-to-cover for the last seven or eight years; she knew damn well who the editor was.

"Positively fascinating piece," Mr. Wimple went on, "Pity, really; I read the article  _before_  I looked at Filius' accompanying letter. Even after I did read it, I had a hard time believing it was student work; figured at first someone in Runes and Symbols might've written it, and I was ready to insist to Ignus here that we tap the author for the next vacancy —"

Calista took in a sharp breath, hardly daring to hope that Mr. Wimple was saying what she thought he was; and then Mr. Ivanforth cut in, in a sharp, even tone.

"You should know, Miss Snape, that the Committee on Experimental Charms categorically  _does not_  offer internships," he said, "The nature of our work is too important, too dangerous. Nevermind that we haven't got the budget for it."

"Yes," Calista said, quietly, trying not to let her disappointment show in her face. "I — I did know that."

"We're here as a bit of a personal favour to Filius," Mr. Ivanforth went on.

Mr. Wimple's quiet smile was back, suddenly. "And to meet you, of course," he interjected; Mr. Ivanforth sighed, and nodded a reluctant agreement. "All right, yes, and to meet you, Miss Snape."

"I did indicate," Professor Flitwick piped up, "That if Mr. Ivanforth and Mr. Wimple could spare the time to come here, you might be willing to provide a bit of a demonstration, of the charms you wrote about in your article."

"Oh — of course," Calista said, "I… I could do that."

Mr. Ivanforth nodded expectantly; and then he held his hand out. "Your wand, if you please," he said, "Mr. Wimple and I are  _very_  interested in seeing the runic charms work without it."

She set the pages of her Ministry letter down on the nearest desk and withdrew her wand from her pocket, but then she hesitated; she'd always been taught never to surrender her wand, and she'd only just met these two men, even if she did generally trust that Professor Flitwick wouldn't bring anyone to meet her that intended her harm.

While she hesitated, her father slipped a few steps to her side, and plucked her wand neatly from her hand; he held it up between his fingers, and then took another step towards the front of the classroom, and away from her.

"I presume this will suffice?" he asked, looking at the pair; Mr. Ivanforth nodded. "Indeed. Now, Miss Snape — if you could demonstrate one of your charms."

She had a panicked few seconds of wondering precisely  _what_  she was supposed to demonstrate on; she couldn't very well conjure a mouse, or anything else — she'd still never managed Conjuration — and she was beginning to fervently hope that there was a creature of  _some sort_  in the classroom that she could summon, when Professor Flitwick intervened, matter-of-factly conjuring a mouse onto the surface of the same desk where she'd set her letter down.

It began to skitter away in a blind panic; reflexively, Calista traced the pattern of the familiar rune with her right hand.

 _Subsisto._  She mouthed the word; the mouse stopped moving, frozen in place. Mr. Wimple's brow shot up. Mr. Ivanforth glanced sidelong, where Severus still held Calista's wand securely in his hand.

"Very good, Calista, very good," Professor Flitwick encouraged, "Your Levitation Charm, now, I think."

She nodded, and adjusted the position of her fingers, drawing another shape in the air.

 _Ascensum_ , she mouthed; released from the Freezing Charm but caught up in another, the mouse rose about a metre off the surface of the desk; it let out an anguished squeak, and its legs scrabbled uselessly in midair. She repeated the rune, and the pattern, to stop the mouse from dropping jarringly back down.

"How many times do you need to repeat the rune for the spell to work?" Mr. Wimple asked curiously; Calista shifted, drawing two runes in rapid succession.

 _Voco_ 'mouse', she mouthed, and then: _Invitus._

The mouse zoomed through the air, towards her; she caught it in her left hand, and once she had a secure grip around its squirming middle, she lowered her wand hand, and looked at Mr. Wimple.

"I only need to call the rune once, for the spell to work," she explained, "But all of my runic charms are quite short-lived; I need to repeat them to have them hold for any appreciable length of time."

"Interesting," he murmured, and then: "I presume that last bit was a demonstration of the runic Summoning Charm you wrote about?"

She nodded. The mouse squeaked, poking its head out of her hand, and wriggling its whiskers in the air.

"It took me a long time to get that one working," she said, "I couldn't manage it with a single rune; I used two. The first,  _voco_ , to identify the object in question, and the second,  _invitus,_  to actually summon it. I was stuck on it for a long time, actually, until I realised from — ah, another project — that more complex spells seem to require multiple runes."

Mr. Ivanforth raised a brow. "What other project, if I might ask?"

 _Shit._  She meant her wandless legilimency; that was her first experience with utilising multiple runes, but she couldn't tell them about  _that_. She could practically feel the tension rolling off her father suddenly, though she suspected she was the only one.

"It's — I'm still working on it," she said, hastily, "The Summoning charm is the first success from it, though."

If anything, her words only piqued their interest. She was struck by a sudden idea; perhaps she could turn her near-mistake into an opportunity. She smiled slyly.

"If you'd like to know more, I'd certainly be willing to write another article for the  _Experimental Charms_  journal once my research is further along."

She glanced at her father, and she could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch, as he tried to conceal a smirk of amusement.

 _How's that for belonging in Slytherin_? She shifted her gaze back to the two men from the Committee, to see their reaction.

Mr. Ivanfoth's brow was still raised, but Mr. Wimple looked like  _he_  was trying to conceal sudden amusement, too; she saw him lift his hand briefly to his mouth, and he cleared his throat.

Perhaps she'd inadvertently tightened her grip on the mouse from nerves, or perhaps it had simply gotten tired of being held aloft — its occasional squeaks shifted, suddenly, into an ongoing chatter. And then she remembered something else she  _could_  show them. A peace offering, as it were, for her cheeky remark, though she meant it; she  _was_  still working on more charms, and if these men wanted to know about it, they could publish her work again — or let her on the Committee; she'd certainly accept  _that_  offer.

"I do have —" she started, and raised her voice slightly, to be heard over the mouse, "I do have one other runic spell I can demonstrate…"

She heard a slight, urgent noise to her right. She glanced at her father, who had narrowed his eyes warningly; she shot a glance in his direction, along with a brief scowl.

"A Silencing Charm," she added, smoothly.

 _How stupid do you take me for?_  She sent a tendril of thought drifting towards him, tinged with frustration that he hadn't initially trusted her, even after everything that had happened last weekend, with Marcus.

Outwardly, he ignored her, shifting his gaze to the pair from the Ministry. She felt the tendril of thought come rocketing back towards her, as if it he'd flicked it away in irritation.

The mouse must have been tired of being experimented on; its struggling squeals rose; she could feel it twisting and writhing in her hand.

Suddenly, a surge of dread rose in her; the squeals became death cries in her mind; the mouse became a rat… the classroom threatened to dissolve into a leaf-strewn forest floor, and she thought she could smell the faint, coppery scent of blood…

 _No_ , Calista stiffened, struggling to prevent the vision from overtaking her.  _Not this; not now._

"Yes, please," Mr. Ivanforth muttered, casting a dark glance at the shrill managed to hear him, barely, over the rushing in her ears; dimly, she remembered to hold on to the mouse. "Do show us."

"I…" Calista forced herself to take a breath; her chest was so tight, suddenly, that it was like trying to breath with a thestral sitting on top of her; and then she remembered that thestrals could fly.

She reached into herself, searching for the core of her strength, to force the vision aside; the classroom wavered, threatening to fade around her, but what had her father just reminded her of?  _Like calls to like_. She reached for a moment of strength; she recalled the day, weeks ago, in a crowded, noisy restaurant, where she had successfully used legilimency to pry the secrets Gerald needed from his father; and, just like  _this_ , she had done it without her wand.

As soon as she'd called the memory to the forefront of her mind, she could feel similar memories, other victories, drifting in its wake; she shifted the memory of the dead rat, and the chill forest aside, letting the other memories through.

 _I can keep_ her  _out,_ she reminded herself grimly,  _And so, for now, I can keep this_ in _._

She drew the memories around herself, like a shield; and the classroom flickered back into focus, the smell of blood fading from her nose. The squeals didn't fade; she realised she was still gripping the mouse, and it wanted to break free.

They were looking at her, all of them — her father wore a grim mask of concern; he must have been able to guess that something was wrong. Professor Flitwick and Mr. Wimple both looked mildly puzzled. Mr. Ivanforth looked impatient.

"I — I'm sorry," she said, taking another breath, and another, until she felt something close to normal, again. "I was just — I suppose I'm a bit nervous. I haven't performed this spell much, yet. I've only just worked it out."

By the end of her explanation, her voice came out even; Professor Flitwick nodded encouragingly.

"It's quite all right, Calista; take your time."

She nodded, allowing herself a few more careful, deliberate breaths in and out, until finally, they came out as evenly as her voice had just managed to. She lifted her wand hand again, tracing the rune she'd used to silence Marcus, less than a week ago. It suddenly seemed like ages ago; but then again, so did the moment she'd walked into this classroom.

 _Confuto._ She mouthed the word; intantly, the mouse fell silent, though she could still feel it wriggling in her hand. She traced the rune again, and a third time, while Mr. Ivanforth and Mr. Wimple exchanged a glance. Distracted, Calista stopped tracing the rune; the mouse began squealing again, instantly and piteously.

Professor Flitwick stepped forward, and motioned for her to open her hand; she did, and he waved his wand, vanishing the mouse. In its absence, the room seemed suddenly, oppressively silent.

"Calista has one other spell that I think you should see," Professor Flitwick said, "Severus, if you could return her wand…?"

Severus nodded curtly, and handed her wand back. She took it, with a questioning glance first at her father, and then at Professor Flitwick.

"Show them your Freezing Charm," Professor Flitwick said, "Your — ah,  _traditional_  one."

Calista blinked. The mouse was gone; what was she supposed to demonstrate on?

Professor Flitwick's canary-swallowing look was back. "Severus, I presume you're amenable to assisting Calista with her demonstration?"

Her father nodded, and slid forward; he met her gaze briefly, and then: "Go on; show them, Calista."

The eyes of both Ministry men were upon her; Calista lifted her wand and aimed it at her father.

" _Immobulus!_ "

Severus froze. There were a few seconds of dense silence, and then it was shattered when Mr. Wmiple broke out in a loud, raucous laugh.

"Brilliant," he said, "Fantastic joke, Filius, Mr. Snape."

Filius didn't laugh, and Severus didn't move; Mr. Wimple blinked, and then, experimentally, he poked Severus' shoulder. Mr. Ivanforth came round, and began to carefully inspect Severus as well.

"As I believe I told you both," Filius said, with a bit of a sly tone, "Miss Snape is possessed of an  _exceptional_ gift in the field of charmwork."

Mr. Wimple let out a low whistle. Mr. Ivanforth glanced down at the desk to his right, which still held the half-crumpled pages from her Matching letter; the Ministry seal was just visible at the top of the first page.

"You can release the spell," he said; Calista did, waving her wand and casting the counter-charm swiftly. Severus shivered briefly, and then silently took up his prior place, at Calista's elbow. He set his hand on her shoulder.

"I presume this is the list of internships you were offered at the Ministry?" Mr. Ivanforth said, reaching towards it but stopping just short of picking it up.

Calista nodded. "Yes," she said, with a trace of bitterness, "That's — that's what they offered me."

"May I?" Mr. Ivanforth asked, and she first shrugged, and then nodded. Severus' grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, encouragingly.

Mr. Ivanforth skimmed the letter, and then he snorted, quite derisively. He shifted the pages, allowing Mr. Wimple to look it over, too and then  _he_  snorted, shaking his horned head back and forth in disbelief.

"File clerk," Mr. Wimple said, " _Court scribe_. Can you believe it?"

"Unfortunately, I can," Mr. Ivanforth said grimly, "Though I'll admit, the Matching Committee has reached an impressively elevated level of incompetence, this time; I can't imagine what they were thinking. The Unspeakables are mad not to take her, if you ask me, policy be damned."

Mr. Wimple nodded in agreement, horns bobbing. "You know how they are, though — Saul doesn't like to bend the rules; don't know how he expects to fill their ranks, by the way, turning away everyone with ties to Azkaban's finest — half our bloody population was imprisoned after the war — but still —"

He glanced past her, over her shoulder, at her father. "What did you say she had, Mr. Snape? Nine O.W.L.s? Six O's?"

Her father nodded. "Yes," he said, "That's correct."

Mr. Wimple shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said, "They should've at least put her with the Obliviators, or in Accidental Magic Reversal. Doesn't make sense."

Calista hardly dared to breathe; they  _knew_ , these two men  _knew_  exactly what the letter had said, and exactly who she was, and they still thought she deserved a proper place in the Ministry?

And then, as if he'd read the hope on her face, Mr. Ivanforth eyed her sternly.

"You understand, of course, Miss Snape, that whatever Mr. Wimple and I may think, the facts remain: the Experimental Charms Committee doesn't offer an internship, and we can't appoint anyone without the minimum three years' of relevant experience."

She nodded her understanding; trying her best to keep her disappointment off her face; they had met her, at least. They knew who she was, and they knew that she was interested in joining the Committee. Perhaps if she kept up with her research, stayed on their radar, they'd remember her in three years, or at whatever point  _beyond_  three years from now that a vacancy came up — and perhaps they could publish another of her essays or help her find a suitable place to gain experience, in the meantime.

"I'm afraid we don't have the required pull to change this either," Mr. Wimple said, in a bit of a gentler tone than Mr. Ivanforth's, brandishing the weathered Ministry letter, and effectively crushing Calista's last hope.

"Indeed," Mr. Ivanforth agreed, grimly; and then, his eyes shifted to Severus, lighting with a peculiar glint. "However — your father has told us that you were offered a position at St. Mungo's, which you intend to accept." His gaze flickered to the left, meeting hers. "Is this still true?"

"I was planning on it," she agreed, cautiously, and once again Mr. Ivanforth and Mr. Wimple exchanged a glance.

"This position," Mr. Wimple said, thoughtfully, "It's a proper employment offer, correct? In other words, you won't be part of the Internship program — you'll be a regular hospital employee?"

Calista nodded. "Yes; it's in the Potions Brewing Department."

"Ah, excellent, excellent," Mr. Wimple said, horns bobbing once more as he nodded. "And we're told you're reasonably skilled in the healing arts — that's true, as well?"

"I certainly like to think so," she said, "I'm certified in Poisons and Antidotes, and I'm proficient with a number of healing charms."

"Calista can capably perform a little-known and particularly advanced Latin-based healing charm," her father supplied, quietly, over her shoulder, "It simultaneously slows bleeding and knits wounds, including those inflicted by Dark magic, and it can be cast in succession to augment the effects."

Calista felt a peculiar twinge; it was strange, to hear him boast, simultaneously if unassumingly, about both  _her_  ability and his  _own_  spell. For a moment, she worried that they'd ask her for another demonstration, which would of course require a demonstration of a  _different_  sort first, one which she wasn't certain she could face, not after nearly reliving that day with the damn rat again. She suppressed a shiver.

"Very well," Mr. Ivanforth said, with a measure of finality. He twitched his forearm towards himself, checking his watch again, "I think that's all in order, then; you agree, Gilbert?"

Mr. Wimple nodded, enthusiastically. "Oh, yes. I quite agree."

Mr. Ivanforth straightened his arm, and regarded Calista once more.

"Neither Mr. Wimple or myself can alter the bylaws of the Committee, nor can we overrule the Matching Committee's decisions," he said, a bit sternly, "However — with that said, Filius is quite right. Inexperienced though you may be, Miss Snape, I think everyone in this room can agree that talent and potential such as you possess doesn't come along nearly often enough."

She swallowed, and drew in a breath; feeling her shoulders square off with a surge of pride.

"Not to mention  _enthusiasm_ ," Mr. Wimple added; Calista had the distinct impression that he was teasing her, gently, for her initial reaction at being introduced.

"Erm — thank you," she managed, cautiously, but Mr. Ivanforth wasn't finished speaking. He held up his hand, and went on:

"We can't appoint you until you have at least three years' experience, in charmwork or research," he repeated, "But this position at St. Mungo's gives us another avenue to work with, if you're amenable."

Calista frowned, softly. "You want me to work  _there_ for three years, before you'll consider me for the Committee?" she asked, "It's — I'm not going to be involved with charmwork  _or_  research there, remember? I'm going to be in the Potions Department."

Mr. Wimple allowed a small, almost indulgent smile. "Actually, Miss Snape, we want you to begin working for the Committee quite a bit sooner than  _that_."

"As I'm sure you well know, the nature of our work can be quite dangerous," Mr. Ivanforth said, still in his plain, direct tone. It struck her that he would probably make an excellent teacher, or lecturer. "In the course of our research, committee members have suffered our fair share of injuries and other mishaps, from minor burns and scratches to — " and here, he glanced towards Mr. Wimple, " — ah, more  _permanent_ afflictions."

"I can't imagine what he means," Mr. Wimple said, rolling his eyes up towards his horns; Calista allowed the flicker of a smile, and Mr. Wimple grinned.

"As such, we have an ongoing contract with St. Mungo's," Mr. Ivanforth went on, solemnly, "We pay a fee, and they provide us with a resource from their staff, on a per diem basis, based on the needs of whatever the committee is working on. Typically, for obvious reasons, we request a Healer. However…" Mr. Ivanforth met her gaze directly, "I am suddenly anticipating the need for a Potions Brewer."

Calista felt her eyes widen; she hardly dared to believe he was saying what she thought he might be.

"We won't  _actually_  have you work on Potions, of course," Mr. Wimple said, quickly, "That's just what we'll need to tell the folks at St. Mungo's, for it to be covered under our contract. We'll start you on research, I expect, at least at the beginning — probably ask you to perform a few healing spells, too, as needed, since we won't be getting the additional help."

Mr. Ivanforth nodded. Calista wondered how he could come across so matter-of-factly; did he have any  _idea_  how quickly her heart was beating, suddenly, or how clammy her palms were?

"That's precisely what I had in mind," Mr. Ivanforth confirmed, "We're allotted a maximum of twelve hours per week under the contract. I think we'll still request a Healer here and there to cover critical experiments, so we would likely be looking to enlist you to work with us one day a week, on a fairly regular basis. So; what do you think, Miss Snape? Are you interested?"

Calista gaped; and then, with a subtle squeeze at her shoulder, she managed: "Are you m — Of  _course_  I — erm, yes, I'm definitely interested."

Mr. Wimple grinned, a second time, rather encouragingly. Mr. Ivanforth merely nodded, placidly, as if he and Calista had just agreed that rain was wet, or that post usually came by owl.

"Very well," Mr. Ivanforth said, for a second time; then he reached into the pocket of his robes, and produced a small, purple card, holding it just in front of her, but not quite handing it over.

"Our offer is contingent, of course, on your achieving an 'O' in Charms at the N.E.W.T. level — though I daresay that won't be a problem — and we'd like to see some additional N.E.W.T. levels as well; based on your O.W.L.s and the projects I have in mind for you, let's say Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, and at least two others. That would set you up, well, I think."

Calista nodded eagerly, accepting the terms on the spot; it seemed unbelievable that she had managed, for a moment, to be coy about this at all; but then, that was when she'd only thought another article was at stake.

"That's fair," she said, "I can do that."

Mr. Ivanforth handed the card over, between his fingers, and Calista took it quickly, before he could change his mind, or she could wake up from whatever fantastic sort of dream this was.

"In that case, Miss Snape, here is my contact information; I'll ask you to arrange to have your N.E.W.T scores sent to my office, and to advise me of your start date at St. Mungo's, whenever you should learn it. I expect it will take several weeks to take care of paperwork and all of that before they'll send you over under the contract, so the sooner I have everything I need, the better."

"I — thank you," Calista said, and she might have gone on, quite unflatteringly, if Mr. Ivanforth hadn't lifted his arm in that moment to check his watch, yet again.

"I don't want to keep Fudge waiting, Gilbert," he said, "Our meeting's in fifteen minutes, and it's at least a ten-minute walk to the gates."

Mr. Wimple wrinkled his nose. "I  _hate_  budget meetings," he sighed, " _Especially_ when they're on a Friday."

"Yes, well," Mr. Ivanforth said firmly, "As long as you continue to  _spend_  half of our budget, Gilbert, you will continue to assist me in arguing for it."

Mr. Wimple grinned sheepishly, and then offered a friendly, familiar sort of handshake to Professor Flitwick: "Fair enough, fair enough. We'd best be off, then. Good to see you, Filius." He turned to Calista, then, and shook her hand again, too.

"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Snape," he said, horns bobbing again, "And we're very much looking forward to working with you. Good luck on your exams."

"Thank you," she said again, managing a remarkable calm; and then, as soon as they'd left, and as soon as the Charms classroom was empty, except for herself, her father, and Professor Flitwick, she felt her arms and legs begin to tremble.

"I — I can't  _believe_ that just happened," she murmured, feeling her face spreading into a wide grin. Her father smirked, and Professor Flitwick squealed with delight.

"That went even better than I expected," he admitted. "Excellent demonstration, Calista — simply superb."

"Thank you, Professor Flitwick," she said, quite sincerely, "For getting them to come — and for helping me with the article — and… and  _everything —_ "

Professor Flitwick waved his hand in an enthusiastic dismissal.

"Not at all, my dear; you did all the work. You thoroughly earned this opportunity, and you should be quite proud of yourself."

"Or," her father pointed out, "You  _will_  have earned it, once you finish your exams. It's critical that you continue your revisions —"

"Dad," Calista rolled her eyes. "When have I ever let  _that_  slide?"

"Well," he made a noise in his throat, and frowned. If he was trying to come up with an example, he evidently gave up; a bit peevishly, he finished: "See that you don't start."

The three of them spoke for a few minutes longer; Professor Flitwick reminded her of the date for the Advanced Magical Theory exam, and he and her father briefly discussed the anticipated exam timetables.

And then, just before they took their leave, Severus fixed Professor Flitwick with a brief look, and a nod of acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Filius," he said, quietly.

He placed his hand at his daughter's shoulder again, and they left, together.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

April passed in a blur; a rainy, sleep-deprived blur, as Calista redoubled her already robust revision schedule, in preparation for her N.E.W.T. exams.

If Severus had actually believed she might be remiss in her studies, she seemed determined to prove him fantastically wrong; but she had a feeling she knew precisely why he'd wanted to find something to badger her for. There was precious little left over which he  _could_ , and even less time for him to do it; neither one of them quite knew what to make of that, but it was impossible not to be reminded of their impending separation, when all most of the seventh years could talk about was graduation, and Calista already had a full-time employment offer lined up, hundreds of miles from the castle.

They didn't discuss it; when the topic of the Charms Committee  _or_  St. Mungo's came up, they spoke of it broadly, as if it were a thing that would be happening in two years, or three, rather than in a handful of months.

More and more often, Calista eschewed the library to study in her old spot, at her father's little kitchen table, and more and more often, Severus found a reason to sit in there, too, despite the fact that the chairs in his study were far more comfortable for reading. Between the two of them, during the course of that spring, they managed to drink nearly an entire nation's gross export worth of coffee, and till they steered clear of the topic of precisely  _what_  would happen, after this summer.

Calista became so absorbed in her revisions, and her research, that she returned to her old habit of forgetting to eat often enough, until reminded. Severus, for his part, seemed to take a particular pleasure in reminding her, and they both pretended that they found the ongoing pseudo-battle to be irritating rather than comforting.

She had less time to write to Gerald, as exams drew near, which he fortunately seemed to be very understanding of. Though she didn't always find time to reply, he wrote her twice a week — once, near the middle of each week with an update regarding the situation with his father, and once near the weekends — usually on Friday night — with his romantic missives, which were becoming  _far_  too poetic for Calista's taste; she made certain to tell him so, even as she responded nearly in kind with a combination of runes, Latin, and her newly-developing aptitude for French.

The most critical update had come early on; Terry had gone home for the weekend, and the family had had a much-needed conversation. Gerald had admitted that they still had a long way to go; Terry was still hesitant to believe that his father could be all bad, and he was resentful at having been sheltered and misled for so long, not only by his brother, but by his mother and his cousins, and everyone else. According to Gerald, Terry had first been horrified by what their father had done to Gerald, and then horrified that his brother had never told him. They were speaking again, but they were wary, and uncertain in their exchanges; she knew it hurt Gerald's feelings, though he tried to stay positive.

April transitioned into May; if it weren't for her Herbology lessons, Calista supposed she wouldn't have known that the weather was growing warmer, and plants were flowering. Aside from the required weekly trips to the greenhouses, she spent nearly all of her time in the castle, in classes, or in the library, or at her father's kitchen table.

In May, she and Emily reached breakthrough in their Potions project; at last, they found a concentration of salamander blood that could be combined with the goldenseal root to extend the shelf-life of the potion, and was still effective. The consistency of the potion was thicker than it ought to have been, but Severus and Emily had reported testing it, and found it to be sufficient for up to three weeks after it was brewed, if a fresher potion was not available.

Calista knew that he'd ordinarily have had her test the potion, too; but when she imagined having to to feed it to a struggling, bleeding rat, she didn't know if she could even express how grateful she was to be let off that particular portion of the assignment. He let her write up the essay, instead, and if Emily thought it was an odd arrangement, she didn't' say so.

Gerald kept her updated throughout May, as well, on his family's situation. Helen had advised that his mother press charges against Brandon, for contacting Terry. It turned out that the statute of limitations for his illegal contact with Gerald had already passed, since Gerald had been of age for almost the last year of it, but he was still encouraged to testify at the hearing, whenever it was; they hadn't received a date, yet. According to Helen, it could be quite some time. Calista ached for Gerald; she knew that he would want it to be over as soon as possible. She hoped he was managing to sleep all right; she sent him another of her hair ribbons, recalling that it had helped him sleep once before, and this time she placed a luck charm on it; even with her skill, it would only last a day at most on an inanimate object, but she hoped it would help him, somehow, to carry it with him as she knew he would.

One day in the middle of May, her father entered the tiny kitchen suddenly, with his customary scowl, and something  _else_  that seemed as out of place as if he'd arrived with a new kitten.

"Here," he growled, thrusting a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils at her, where she sat doing her revisions, "Evidently, when that blasted owl of yours couldn't find  _you_ , she decided that dropping these in my breakfast was a suitable alternative."

Calista bit back a grin. "I suppose everyone will think you've got a secret admirer now," she remarked, taking the flowers quite a bit more carefully than he had handled them. There was a tiny card attached; Calista removed it, and read the brief note:

_Mon colibri,_

_I imagine you'll be sitting behind a stack of books somewhere when you receive these; and since I know you won't look up long enough to see the spring flowers blooming for yourself, I thought I ought to send you some, so you wouldn't miss them._

_Mon cœur t'appartient à jamais,_

_Gerald C. Boot_

She hid her grin under pretense of finding a vase for the flowers; the card, she slipped into her pocket, to add to her collection of notes and letters. She looked them over late at night, sometimes, when she was having a hard time falling asleep. Sometimes, they helped; other times, they made her lie awake for an entirely different reason; but either way, it had been almost well over a month since she could recall being jolted awake by a nightmare.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista received another surprise, a few days after the flowers came from Gerald, and once again Severus had brought it to her, in the kitchen where she'd practically moved into. He handed her two letters, and took his customary seat across from her. She recognised Tonks' messy scrawl at once on the top envelope, and though it was only nine o'clock in the morning, she'd already been buried deep in her Arithmancy text for hours. She tore open the letter, knowing that she could count on Tonks to send her something funny, a joke or perhaps a story from her Auror training, that might grant her a brief respite from the pressure of revisions.

She wasn't disappointed; Tonks had somehow managed to activate a a fire-prevention ward during one of her practise duels, triggering a latent Waterfall Charm that had thoroughly doused her entire class with icy cold water that came crashing down from the ceiling; Calista had already been trying not to laugh out loud at the tale, when she reached the end where Tonks had written, in huge letters and underlined three times: STILL WON THE BLOODY DUEL THOUGH. She  _had_  laughed at that, momentarily disrupting her father's reading; he'd scowled at her over the top of his book, before she set the letter aside, and remembered that there had been a second one with it,

She'd been exchanging regular letters with her older cousin perhaps once a month, and so it wasn't unusual to hear from  _her_ ; but Calista scarcely recognised the handwriting on the outside of the second letter. She'd only seen it a handful of times, and usually only as a brief note or signature in a birthday or Christmas card.

It was from Tonks' mother, Andromeda.

_Dear Calista,_

_I hope you are well, and that your studies are coming along as well. I can remember my own N.E.W.T. preparations as if they were two weeks, rather than two decades ago; I spent so much time in the library that I began to hide a pillow and blanket beneath a Disillusionment Charm in the Restricted section. I never admitted that to Dora, as I always rather suspected she'd repurpose the idea for a more nefarious cause, but something tells me that you have a bit more in common with me, in that respect._

_I've been intending to write you a proper letter for some time now, but it is difficult to know what to say to you. I know you see my sister in me, at least physically, and in the same fashion I see her in you, though truth be told, when you came to our house a couple of summers ago, I thought I saw a lot of me in you as well. I keep thinking about my journal, and how it works for you now, and I think that must hold some sort of meaning, especially as I'm certain, upon reflection, that I_ did _take it with me when I left my parents' home; and yet, somehow, it ended up in your hands when you had need of it._

_Perhaps it is this, or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that you are one of very few of my relatives that will still deign to speak with me, but I find myself thinking of you often, lately; not only of the past which I still feel wretched for not being able to rescue you from, but also of the future, of the young woman you will become. I admit that I haven't had the chance to know you very well, but I think that I would like to. It strikes me that, from what Dora's told me of your character, and from what I thought I glimpsed myself, that you may very well find yourself burned from the family tree, as I was; but that does not mean that you won't still have family._

_I hope that we can stay in touch, Calista. Please write me, if you feel inclined, or if you do not, I hope that you will visit myself and Dora again this summer._

_Your Aunt (if you'll have me),_

_Andromeda_

Calista read the letter twice, and then she rose, still holding it in her hands. She didn't know why, but she had the sudden urge to move, to do something with her hands, to still their trembling.

 _No,_  she reminder herself, darkly,  _You do know why; you know it very well._

She folded the letter hastily and put it into her pocket.

"If you're making more coffee," her father said, from his spot at the table, "I'll have a cup."

 _Coffee._ Now there was a perfectly safe thing to concentrate on; a thing that wasn't about to tell her that it saw her mother in her. She started a pot, and while she busied herself with that and with taking down a pair of mugs, she got her breathing, and her trembling hands more or less under control.

She filled both mugs, and carried them to the table. She set the first one down at her father's elbow, but she didn't return to her seat behind her wall of textbooks. Instead, for a moment, she hesitated, at her father's side.

He looked up; he glanced first at the coffee, and then at her, where she stood beside him, holding onto her own mug with an undoubtedly uneasy expression on her face; she didn't bother to try to hide it. The truth was, she didn't want to. She wanted to know.

"What's wrong?" he asked, at once, marking his page and setting his book down.

"Nothing's exactly  _wrong_ ," she murmured, "It's just… I got a letter from… from my aunt. Not Aunt Narcissa; Andromeda. Tonks' mum."

He lifted a brow. "And?"

"It was a nice letter, I suppose," Calista said, "About how — she wants to stay in touch, and I think get to know me better. She brought up the book again…"

Calista had already explained her journal's origins to her father, after her visit there a few summers — what felt like a few ages — ago, now. He nodded, waiting for her to go on.

"And… and something else. She said… she said she knows that she reminds me of  _her_ , and… and she said that  _I_ remind her of her sister, too —"

She could see Severus' mouth twisting into a scowl; she went on hurriedly:

"That I look like her, I mean."

She watched his face, carefully. She wanted to see the scowl deepen, or to see his eyes flash, or any other of a number of things that would reassure her that the observation was ridiculous, that she didn't look anything like her mother.

Instead, his expression shifted, and softened. "And you're upset by this, I take it?"

Calista swallowed, and wrapped her fingers securely around her mug, as if its warmth could give her be absorbed through her skin; and perhaps to some extent it could, because she managed to venture on:

It's just… I can't help but wonder if it's true. Aunt Narcissa's always saying I have… you know, her cheekbones, or whatever. And then, there was that stupid painting that said as much, when Professor Dumbledore called me to his office a few months ago—"

Severus' demeanour changed abruptly; his neck stiffened, and then he leapt to his feet, startling her back. " _What?_ "

Calista backed up, against the edge of the kitchen doorway, startled by his reaction; her coffee sloshed over the edges of the cup, burning her fingers. She set it down hastily, and then retreated, again.

"I wasn't in  _trouble_ ," she clarified, in a rush, "And it was a while ago, not  _recently_. He just — I guess he just wanted to talk to me. And there was this painting, behind his desk… he said it was my great-great grandfather, or something. And he — the painting — seemed to know I was related to him. He said… he said I… had the 'look'..."

Calista trailed off, as Severus' expression grew darker, with each word.

"Have I said something wrong?" she asked, uncertainly. His eyes were on her, glittering and dark. Wildly, she thought that perhaps he was just now seeing the truth of it, that she  _did_  look just like her mother, and that it was the realisation of it that was somehow upsetting him.

He stepped towards her, swiftly. "What did the Headmaster say to you?" he asked, "What did he want?"

"Nothing," she said, again. She felt a flash of irritation; it was one thing, to nag her about her revisions and about remembering to eat, and to go to bed at something approaching a reasonable hour, but  _this_ — she thought he was taking it too far, now. She'd already told him she wasn't in trouble; and he was avoiding her original question.

"I told you, I wasn't in trouble," she snapped, "Hecate Rowle was being her usual nosy, upstart self — I told you, this was months ago — she evidently said something to him about me having to do with Sirius Black getting into the castle, that first time, with the painting. But of course, I had nothing to  _do_  with that, and Professor Dumbledore told me right away that he knew that, he just wanted to ask me about…"

She trailed off; she really didn't want to talk about the returned memory again; she had more or less avoided thinking about it recently, except for the brief exchange in his office last month, after she'd modified Marcus' memory. That night, after she'd done it, was the last time she'd had a nightmare about it, and she didn't want another one, now, not when she'd made it so long without one.

"Tell me everything he said," Severus said, quietly; his expression left no room for argument.

"The — the memory," she said, feeling her heart pound, and twisting her mouth up at the bitter taste of the word, "The stupid, blasted memory; it was right after I asked you if you could take it back, again. He said you went to ask him about removing it, but it couldn't be done. He wanted to know why I'd asked —"

"What did you tell him?" her father interrupted.

Calista shrank bank a little further; the edge of the doorframe pressed against her spine painfully. It had been so long ago, now. She tried her best to recall.

"I… I said it didn't matter, since he'd just told me it couldn't be done. Then I… I asked if I was free to go."

Severus relaxed, slightly; at any rate, he looked a bit less like he'd just swallowed an asp. "That's all you talked about?" he asked, "That's all the Headmaster said to you?"

Calista frowned, trying to remember. "I think so." She eased herself away from the doorframe. "Oh. There was something else, I suppose. He said… he said some strange nonsense about me having things in common with… with a phoenix."

Severus hissed, and Calista immediately jumped back; this time she went  _through_  the doorway, instead of into it, and ended up in the corridor.

"I  _forbade_ him," Severus said, sharply; and all at once, she understood that his anger was not directed at her. "All this time, I've been faithfully keeping his secrets, and —" he paused, and his eyes bore into her.

"You are never to go to the Headmaster's office again, without me present," he said, forcefully. "And you are to let me know  _at once_  if he attempts to speak with you alone again."

Calista blinked. "I… can't exactly refuse, if he does send for me again…"

" _Yes_ , you can," Severus snarled, "You may be of age, but you are still  _my_ child, and I won't have him — I won't have him —" he stopped, and his lip curled. "This is Lupin's doing, no doubt; he must have realised that you know, and he went straight to the Headmaster; and instead of talking to me about it, Dumbledore decided to play a little game —"

"No," Calista interrupted, from the doorway, where she'd crept back to, once she realised that her father wasn't upset with  _her_. "It can't have been that, because this was definitely  _before_  I knew about Rem — about Professor Lupin. I told you, it was right after the  _first_  time Sirius Black broke into the castle; it was in November."

Severus was looking as though he had inherited her panic-snakes from the summer; she thought she could almost envision one of them, crawling its way up his throat, right that very minute.

"What did you say to him?" he asked quietly, "When he said that you were — like a  _phoenix?_ "

She heard a particular emphasis on the word, and something twitched, at the back of her mind; some long-forgotten memory, or phrase, but when she cast about, seeking it, it had gone as quickly as it had made itself known.

"I told him that I didn't think I really was," she said quietly, "I told him — I guess I was still cross about the thing with Sirius Black, about people saying  _I'd_  helped him into the castle, so I told him that if anything, I was more like a thestral — people always  _think_  they know what I am, but they're wrong. And that I knew nothing about rebirth, but I've always known death..."

Severus' jaw twitched; she thought she saw a flicker of emotion within his dark eyes, but he still seemed to be waiting for her to go on. She remembered, suddenly, what else she had told the Headmaster, and she couldn't help but relay it with a tiny, defiant smirk.

"And I told him — I couldn't ever be a phoenix, because I couldn't live in a cage."

It was Severus' turn to smirk; she saw him do so almost triumphantly, and when he leaned forward, she had the distinct impression that he was pleased with her, with what she'd said.

"You're too clever for your own good," he said, with a grim sort of pride. "Stay that way; and stay away from the Headmaster, as much as you can, unless I am present."

Calista frowned. "I don't understand," she said, "I thought — I thought you and he were friendly. I thought he was… I mean, you had him hold onto my memory, all that time; isn't he one that we're supposed to trust?"

"I did trust Albus Dumbledore," her father said, quietly. "Twice, I trusted him to protect someone I care about, in exchange for a promise of my own; and for the second time, I have cause to question whether I have been played for a fool."

He reached for her, lifting her chin with his fingers, locking his eyes on hers; it was a familiar gesture, though admittedly it was one that happened less and less frequently. It made her feel smaller, somehow, and younger, and she found that it wasn't altogether in an unpleasant way; for a moment, she almost felt as if this moment, and this kitchen, were permanent.

"How much of the truth do you want, Calista?"

 _All of it_ , she started to say, but before her, the kitchen seemed to waver, just as the Charms classroom had, on that day when the vision of the dead rat had come back; she was gripped with a sudden, dark fear that if she asked for it, he  _would_  tell her everything; not only whatever it was about her conversation with Dumbledore that had upset him, but everything else, too; the doe; the Mark on his arm. And if whatever he said  _was_  dark enough to swallow this kitchen whole, there was no going back.

"Tell me as much as you think I need to know," she said softly; immediately, she felt the sharp sting of shame.

 _Coward_ , her mind hissed at her. It struck her, yet again, that the Sorting Hat must have been right after all; a Ravenclaw would have wanted all of the information, and a Gryffindor would not have been afraid to ask; a Slytherin, however — a true and proper Slytherin — would have no qualms about rejecting the truth in order to continue down the preferred, easier path; or at the very least, to avoid having to choose a direction, quite yet.

Severus' face sank with relief; he shifted his hand, from her chin to the side of her face, cupping her cheek — the way Narcissa always did, the way that she had seen Gerald's mother do.

"Power," he said, grimly. "You have it, and others will always want it, once they know. The Dark Lord, should he return again, will want it; and if he  _does_  return, those who oppose him will want it, too."

Suddenly, all at once, Calista understood. She felt a shiver, as the word  _phoenix_  floated back into her mind, as well as the place that she'd heard it before, that had tugged at her mind earlier.

 _The Order of the Phoenix_ ; she had grown up hearing her mother curse their name, from her earliest memories. She didn't know who they all were, but she thought she knew  _what_  they were; they were the Dark Lord's enemies, and they were her mother's enemies.

 _They wouldn't want me, anyway. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't really want me._ Still...

"Professor Dumbledore knows that I'm an occlumens," she murmured. "He said it before; he said it was a highly  _valuable_ skill to have."

"Yes, he does," Severus said, in the same grim tone, "And yes, it is; but like every other skill and talent that you possess, it is  _yours_ , and you are under no obligation to let anyone else exploit it, for their ends."

He shifted closer to her; he still kept his hand at her cheek, and even though she supposed she ought to feel too old for this sort of parental affection, she didn't. She reflected on the six years of her life that it had been entirely absent, and wondered briefly if that meant she was entitled to six  _extra_  years of it, at this end. She found the thought absurdly comforting.

"Promise me," he said, suddenly, "If it happens — if he returns, and if a war comes — you will not choose a side, no matter what either promises you."

"I can't promise that," Calista said, quietly; she saw his jaw lock and his fingers tremble, and then the old look was back in his eyes — the fear, the terror, that something would happen to her, and that it would be his fault.

"I've already  _chosen_  a side," she reminded him, stepping forward. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, helping herself to a bit of that extra six years; perhaps she wasn't the only one that needed it. "I've already chosen yours."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista thought the O.W.L. exams had been taxing; but the N.E.W.T. exams were something else entirely; each exam was a full-day affair, with a written portion in the morning and a practical examination in the afternoon. Those, like Marcus, who had elected to take only a couple of classes got off easy; Calista, on the other hand, was facing eight  _days_  of exams, even after she'd already sat the Advanced Magical Theory Certification exam the week before N.E.W.T. testing began.

The first of the N.E.W.T. exams began the same day as exams for the rest of the school. The core subjects were held first, with the elective subjects scheduled to begin the following week. Calista fervently hoped that she'd make it through the grueling schedule. She  _had_  to earn an O in Charms, and as many other N.E.W.T. levels as possible, to secure the opportunity to work with the Committee on Experimental Charms; and while she was at it, she supposed she'd better get an O in Potions too, so the contingent offer at St. Mungo's wasn't revoked.

History of Magic was on Monday; after  _writing_  about goblin rebellions and International Warlock Conventions for three hours, she was then given an oral exam on the same topics. In the end, when she'd run out of things to say about the giant wars, she'd started talking about ancient magical history, about the pre-wand rituals that she often researched for Charms, and other tidbits about their civilisations that she'd picked up by decoding the book of French runic essays from Gerald. She had no idea if the examiner was impressed or exasperated, and she wasn't about to use legilimency to find out. By the time her exam was over, she had no idea whether or not she'd done well.

Tuesday was the Potions exam. The written portion was incredibly easy; after the Poisons and Antidotes exam last year, she could have taken it practically in her sleep. For the practical portion, each student was placed at a table with a standard cauldron and set of tools. A large table at the front of the room held an assortment of ingredients. The examiners had a list of several advanced potions, all of which could be completed within four hours or less, and they went around, one student at a time, assigning a potion to each.

Calista waited for the examiner to reach her; she ran through a mental inventory of potions that would be considered N.E.W.T. level, but could be completed within four hours and with the ingredients at hand. She came up with several antidotes, four poisons, Blood-Replenishing Potion, Felix Felicis, and…

"Miss Snape," the examiner said; frowning over his glasses at her, "Your potion is… let's see — ah, yes.  _Amortentia._ "

She nearly laughed in the examiner's face; not only was it a godsend, because it was a potion she'd made before, when she was only twelve years old, but it also struck her as incredibly ironic; here she was, an expert in a multitude of poisons and their cures, many of them beyond the level even  _taught_ at Hogwarts, and she was being asked to make a sixth-year  _love potion_  to prove her mettle. Still, she supposed it would be interesting to make one properly, in a legitimate setting that wasn't her wardrobe.

She took her time, measuring the ingredients carefully, and treating each step of the potion precisely; after all, there would hardly be time to start over, as she had dozens of times during her first tangle with the potion.

She recalled the first time she had made it, that she had been able to discern several distinct scents within it. She couldn't remember precisely what it had smelled like, but she remembered that, at the time, it had been the most pleasing scent she'd ever encountered.

Finally, three hours in, she added the final ingredient, and stirred the cauldron counterclockwise precisely nine times — and then — and then, she looked up, with a start, looking left and then right; he was  _here_ , she couldn't imagine how or why he was here, now, but she  _knew_  somehow, unmistakably, that Gerald was here —

Except, he wasn't. Her wild looks had drawn the examiner, who peered down at her cauldron, filled with a gently steaming, mother-of-pearl potion; she looked down, and realised that the impression she'd gotten was from the scent of the potion, and not from Gerald's physical presence at all; of course he wasn't here, but she smelled the mixed scents that identified him clearly — the clean, fresh smell of dittany and the earthy smell of simmering unicorn horn, from the antidotes he'd spent a year making, across from her, in her father's classroom; the particular fresh-parchment smell of a brand-new book, and something else — it took her a moment to place it, but once she had, she knew: it was the smell that filled her senses, every time she pressed her mouth close to his skin at his collarbone, or under his chin, and kissed him there.

"Erm," she said, fighting off a blush, as the examiner stirred her cauldron experimentally, jotting down notes on a sheet of parchment, "It's — it's right, isn't it?"

"You'll receive your marks over the summer," the examiner said, neutrally; but even if she hadn't known from experience that the potion was precisely right, she could read it on the examiner's face; he wasn't as hard to read as the History of Magic examiner, the day before. She'd done well here, at least.

She wrote to Gerald after her Potions exam — it was impossible  _not_ to, after drinking in the smell of him. She didn't tell him about the potion, but she sent perhaps the boldest flirtations she'd put in writing yet — coded in Latin runes, of course.

On Wednesday, she had the Herbology exam, and though the written portion went all right, her Venomous Tentacula still hated her as much as it had all year — or loved the taste of her, one or the other — and she'd spent more time fighting off its attacks than demonstrating proper harvesting techniques. At least she'd managed to stop it from killing the examiner.

The Transfiguration exam was scheduled for Thursday, which meant that — mercifully — Calista had a day off from exams.

She spent the morning sleeping in for once, but after that she made herself study for her remaining exams. On Friday, the younger students were going to Hogsmeade, as their exams were finished, but the N.E.W.T. exams went on for over two weeks. The seventh-years, whomever was still interested in going after all this time, were to be allowed out on Saturday to visit the village, if they wished, but while the rest of the school went on Friday, they would be sitting their Charms N.E.W.T. For Calista, the altered date worked better; she couldn't ask Gerald to take another day off work, when he'd already missed some time for his family situation, but he  _could_  come and meet her on a Saturday.

She tried to keep her mind  _off_  Gerald and on her revisions, on Thursday; since Charms was next, and she had a day off between that and the Astronomy exam on Monday, she had dedicated herself to going over her Charms notes — not only the ones they'd covered in class, but the ones she'd written for her own research, as well. She knew from Gerald and from Tonks that the practical portion of the Charms exam would consist of a series of increasingly difficult Charms; and then, at the end, they'd be given the chance to demonstrate one additional Charm of their choice. Gerald had done his Patronus, but Calista didn't know how they'd score a non-corporeal Patronus, so she was still nervously deciding between demonstrating one of her wandless charms, or using her Freezing Charm.

Whatever she went with, she hoped fervently that it would be sufficient to earn her an 'O'; it didn't matter how confident her father, and Professor Flitwick, and even the men from the Charms Committee were; she would worry, until it was over, and likely until she'd received her scores.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

"I have an important  _delivery_  to make," Severus said, his sudden presence in the kitchen doorway startling her; she looked up from her Charms notes, nodding — and then she froze.

She saw the goblet in his hand, steam rising from it. She thought back to her last Astronomy assignment — yes, it was the full moon tonight. She felt herself shiver, involuntarily.

"I'll be back in a few moments," her father said, quietly; he flicked his glance over the table, where her notes and books had been strewn for the entirety of the day.

"Have you eaten today?" he asked; guiltily, she shrugged.

"I… don't remember?"

Severus exhaled. "Clear the table while I am gone," he instructed, "And we will eat dinner when I return."

He left, and Calista went back to her notes; soon, she forgot all about his instruction, absorbed in a tangle of notes she'd written on the Fidelius Charm — that was  _certain_  to be on the exam…

Her stomach growled, and she realised that it was aching with hunger; she looked up, guiltily, expecting her father to stride in at any moment and snarl at her for having ignored his request to clear the table. Except — Merlin's' beard, when she checked the clock on the wall, she realised that he'd gone nearly  _forty minutes_ ago.

Alarmed, she leapt up. Something must have gone wrong, when he'd gone to deliver the potion… she wondered if he'd gotten into an argument with Professor Lupin, or… her heart leapt into her throat, with a sudden thought: what if Sirius Black had infiltrated the castle again, and her father had been asked to help with the search?

She checked her pocket for her wand, and then exited his quarters, tracing a path swiftly for the Defence classroom, and Professor Lupin's adjoining office. Nothing seemed amiss in the corridors; she wasn't certain if that struck her as reassuring or alarming. It didn't  _seem_ as if anyone was in the castle that shouldn't be, but if that  _weren't_  what was going on, then where was her father?

The door was ajar, when she reached the Defence classroom; the lights were off. She lit her wand.

"Dad?" she called out, uncertainly, and when she received no answer, she tried, hesitantly: "R - Professor Lupin?"

It was readily evident that the classroom itself was deserted, but his office door at the front end of the classroom was also ajar, and there was a light on, within.

" _Nox_ ," she whispered, extinguishing her wand; she readied it, in case…

 _In case what?_  She challenged herself,  _In case Dad has been attacked, and you find a full-grown werewolf in there? What the bloody hell will you do if that_ does _happen?_

She paused outside the door, listening; she didn't  _hear_  a werewolf. Taking a deep breath, fingers trembling around the base of her wand, she went in.

There was no one in the office; but there  _was_  something else, something that sent a shiver down Calista's spine, and started her heart at triple speed.

A full goblet sat on the corner of the desk; she crept closer, and took a breath. The distinct acrid, potent smell of Wolfsbane Potion hit her nose.

There was something else on the desk too, a large, unrolled sheet of parchment. She wrinkled her nose, curiously. It looked like… she crept closer, and hunched over it, inquisitively.

It  _was_  precisely what it looked like. It was a map, covering the school and — as far as she could tell — the entirety of the grounds. She saw a speck of motion, and gasped, leaning closer over the map. The motion was a tiny dot, with a name over it in miniscule writing.  _Eva Selwyn_ , it said; it took her a moment to orient herself to the map, but once she did, she realised that the tiny dot labelled Eva was in the corridor outside the kitchens. A moment later, the dot slipped through what appeared to be a solid wall — the fruit painting, Calista knew — and then it was  _in_  the kitchens.

"This is mad," Calista murmured; she tried to locate the Defence classroom, and using the kitchens as a reference, she found it, and the little office at its head.

There was one tiny dot in the office;  _Calista Snape_ , it said.

"This is incredible," she muttered, lifting the parchment to inspect it; for a moment, she forgot why she had come, wrapped up in studying the magical map. It was massively impressive charmwork, she knew that at once — precisely what the charms  _were_ , she'd need to study it more thoroughly to find out. She felt an overpowering urge to take it, and to subject it to a thorough examination. Gerald would be  _astounded_  if he could see this; not only did it show the entire school, including the moving staircase and even the secret room on the seventh floor — the one she'd supposed before was Unplottable — but it seemed, somehow, to be able to accurately track every inhabitant of the castle.

She wondered, briefly, if Remus would allow her to borrow it, if she asked — and then she remembered three things, in very rapid succession: firstly, that she and Remus — Professor Lupin — had hardly spoken in months outside of class; second, that he was a  _werewolf_ , and third, that her father had come here to deliver a dose of the Wolfsbane potion and had never returned.

She scanned the map urgently, now; she made herself look at the shape of her own name, the way that 'Snape' looked at a glance, and then she surveyed the rest of the map for the same shape, growing increasingly anxious until - there. She found it.

At the edge of the grounds, near the Whomping Willow, she saw a dot labelled  _Severus Snape_ … and then she saw the series of dots  _around_  the Snape dot, and her blood ran cold.

 _Remus Lupin_ , one dot said; and then  _Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley._ There was another name, one she didn't recognise — Peter something — she presumed it was a first year in one of the other houses. And then… and then she saw one more dot, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest.

_Sirius Black._

"No," Calista whispered; she felt the office threaten to dissolve around her; she gripped the surface of the desk for support.

Her  _father_  was out there, on the grounds with a notorious mass-murder who had bad blood with him, and a  _werewolf_  during the full moon. Her gaze slipped to the full goblet on the desk; it seemed to be taunting her.

"Potter," she murmured; she recalled the memory she'd seen in his mind, when he'd been trying to make her see the truth about Professor Lupin's condition; he had been ruminating about his constant efforts to save Potter's skin…

Everyone said that Sirius Black's primary target was Harry Potter; Severus knew it, and Severus was  _also_  one of few in the school that knew that Professor Lupin was a werewolf. Hurriedly, half-blind with panic, her mind spelled it out for her — Harry Potter had gone and done something stupid, something dangerous, like he  _always_  did, like Gryffindors  _always_ did — and her father must have found out, and must have gone after him, to try and help him…

And now… and now, her father was cornered by Sirius Black and by Remus —  _no,_  she told herself, in the face of what seemed like damning evidence that her father had been right all along, that the hints and accusations he'd dropped had been correct, that Professor Lupin  _was_  helping Black into the castle.

She could practically hear her father's voice in her ear, sending an unearthly chill up her spine.

_They tried to murder me before; if they had succeeded, I wouldn't be here to tell you the story._

She had to do something — she had to get help. Wildly, she looked at the map again, seeking out someone,  _anyone_  that she could go to; if only she could find Professor Flitwick, or even Professor McGonagall, they would  _have_ to help; she couldn't find them, though. Her eye kept darting back to that same corner of the grounds, where her father was cornered by two men —  _no_ ,  _by a man and a werewolf_ , she reminded herself.

She saw one dot that she might have gone to for help, once; in his office, positioned just behind his desk was a dot labelled  _Albus Dumbledore;_ but she couldn't go to him  _now_ , not after what her father had just said to her about him; not after her father had indicated that he wasn't certain if he trusted the Headmaster.

So that was it, then; there was no one that she could go to, for help, or no one that she had time to  _find_ , as she imagined were-Lupin advancing on her father, fangs glistening in the moonlight…

The smell of blood assaulted her senses again, only this time, it wasn't a rat at all — it was her father that she saw, lying in the Shrieking Shack of all places, throat ripped open, blood seeping everywhere — she nearly lost her balance again, succumbing to the darkness at the edges of her vision…

 _No_ , she told herself fiercely;  _No_.  _You don't have time for this; you've got to go after him._

As soon as she'd had the thought, she straightened. She reached into the depths of her mind, seeking out the core of her strength, tapping into every lesson her father had ever taught her, to calm her mind, to shield it from her own panic.

And then, wand gripped rightly in her hand, Calista raced for the Entrance Hall, not caring how much noise she made; if she saw a Professor on the way, she'd enlist their help, but if she didn't…

She reached the front doors of the castle; there was no one in sight. She had no idea what time it was anymore, no idea how long she'd spent in Professor Lupin's office poring over the map, or how long it had taken her to collect herself to action. All she knew was that her father was in terrible danger, and she was the only one who knew about it, and  _this was the only plan she had_.

Calista pushed open the doors of the castle, and took off in a run across the grounds.


	21. Chapter 21

It occurred to Calista to worry about the dementors only  _after_  she'd made it halfway across the grounds; but it was strange, she hadn't encountered a single one, not even when she'd passed by the main gate where there were nearly always at least two or three.

Once she'd recalled their presence, and noted the sudden unexplainable  _lack_ of it, she felt fear open a gaping hole in her stomach, but she didn't have time to worry about that, not when her father could be being ripped to shreds this very minute.

A full-strength, non-corporeal Patronus was possibly enough to drive away a single dementor, or at least give her a moment's pause to try and run away; she reminded herself grimly of that, but her footsteps slowed slightly, so she could keep a watch out, just the same. It was agonising, to have to look around, and listen when her mind was screaming at her to  _run_  to where she'd last seen  _Severus Snape_ indicated on the map.

 _Dad_ , she called out, with her mind; she sent a tendril of thought seeking outwards, but she couldn't find any sign of him. He was too far away for her to reach him, perhaps.

 _Or_ , her mind hissed at her,  _he can't answer you._

She couldn't let herself think of that; couldn't allow herself to consider the possibility that it might already be too late, because  _not_  thinking about it was the only way that she could manage to keep her head clear, and her feet moving.

She was nearly to the tree, or at least she thought she was; it was pitch-dark, save for the twinkling castle lights in the distance.

She tried calling out for her father again, at the closer distance.  _Dad_ , she sent, three times, four times, increasingly desperate; she funneled more strength than she knew she ought to direct outwards, seeking  _any_  sign of a response from him, or an acknowledgement, or at least the sense that he'd heard her.

There was nothing.

Suddenly, a cloud shifted overhead, and the grounds were awash with the silver halo of moonlight. She made out the skeletal branches of the Whomping Willow on the horizon, a bit further away than she'd thought they'd be.

And then… and then, a piercing, distinctive howl rent the night, and Calista felt her legs freeze; she stumbled to a stop, nearly falling over. Her head was swimming; her fingers began to tremble so intently that she nearly dropped her wand.

A werewolf; it was the unmistakable howl of a werewolf.

For a moment, Calista couldn't move, couldn't think; she could only feel terror coursing through her veins; and then she saw the flash of an image again, her father bleeding, seriously injured or —  _no_ , she wasn't going to think like that. She forced herself onward, nearly tripping over legs that felt as useless as if she'd been hit with a Leg-Locker Curse.

 _Powerful_ , she reminded herself, sternly; she heard the words in her father's voice, and suddenly, in this situation, it did not seem like a bad thing, or a frightening thing, at all…  _you're powerful. Perhaps more so than you even realise._ It was suddenly, absurdly comforting. She felt hopeless, and useless, and terrified — but that didn't mean that had to be all or even  _any_  of those things.

She adjusted her grip on her wand, and hurried on.  _Dad_ , she called out again — and then, suddenly, there was a crashing, rolling sound coming towards her fast; for an instant she thought wildly that it must be her father, that he had sensed her call after all and was rushing to her, undoubtedly to lecture her fiercely for being out of bounds at night —

A lurching, inhuman shape rocketed into her field of vision; a shaft of moonlight caught it, outlining the creature against the night sky; she saw long, bristling grey fur, sharp, gnashing teeth — and eyes, glittering, unfamiliar yellow eyes that lit up with a ferocious hunger, as they locked on her.

There was no reasoning with a transformed werewolf; she had received an O in Defence after all, she  _knew_  that; but it didn't matter, because in that moment, she suddenly couldn't do anything at all, couldn't open her mouth or turn to run or even  _breathe_  if she wanted to.

She was frozen in fear as effectively as if she'd been — and gods, it was coming back  _now_ , of all times; she felt like she was being held stone-still in a curse, her face pressed harshly into the back of a heavy, black brocade sofa. The night began to melt away, around her, into a place she visited only in her darkest nightmares.

The wolf growled, a low, threatening, hungry growl. She saw its hulking shape, but she also saw a shiny wooden floor, half-blurred from tears; she saw the wolf's yellow eyes but she also saw the heavy  _drip, drip_  of blood,  _her_ blood, onto the floor…

 _Dad_ , she called, in her mind and quite possibly out loud, "Dad…" and for an instant, she thought he would come, because he  _always_ came, when she had this particular nightmare… but he didn't answer, and he didn't come, and the wolf was creeping closer, fangs bared. She remembered, suddenly, that  _he_  was the one she'd come out to rescue in the first place; that thought, and the shadow of another huge, inhuman figure — another wolf? — racing towards her jolted her partially to her senses.

She forced the memory of blood aside to concentrate on the very real possibility of losing blood  _now_. As the wolf, and the other shape advanced towards her, she had a clear vision of a spell in her mind; one that could quite possibly save her life, but she hadn't cast it since…

She saw the flashing image of the rat, bleeding out; and then, in an instant, another, jarringly different image; a man with soft brown eyes and a softer voice, reading to a tiny dark-haired child, and she  _couldn't_  cast that spell, even if she could see no sign of that man, now, in this horrible creature's body, because there was a very real possibility that it would kill him if she did.

The other creature let out a howl, as well, but it wasn't that of a wolf — it was a howl of warning, and it was followed up with a series of ferocious barks — it was a  _dog_ , a huge, massive black dog, and it wasn't advancing towards her at all, but, incredibly, towards the  _wolf_.

The wolf reacted; it lunged forward suddenly, leaping towards Calista. She raised her wand, and she cast the next spell that came into her mind, even though it couldn't possibly work; she was going to die, because she was too fucking cowardly to use the spell that  _would_  save her life and possibly her father's besides —

" _Immobulus!_ "

Incredibly, the werewolf was halted, frozen in its tracks; the dog veered, crashing into it and knocking it down; still, even as it reached the ground, the wolf didn't move. The dog whipped its head around to her, and it was absurd, because it was just a  _dog_ , but she could have sworn she saw a question in its eyes, a beleaguered, bewildered, incredulous question —

 _What the fuck?_  The dog seemed to ask, or perhaps  _How the fuck…?_

But the time for questions was short-lived; only a few seconds later, the wolf whipped back into action, snapping at the dog and scratching it across the muzzle; evidently, though her Freezing Charm had managed  _somehow_ , briefly, to stop the creature, it couldn't hold the Dark creature for nearly as long as the spell usually held.

" _Immobulus!_ " she cast the charm again, narrowly missing the dog; again, the wolf froze. She could feel her heart pounding, nearly beating out of chest; was this what she would have to do? Cast her Freezing Charm every five seconds for the remainder of the night, until the sun came up…? But what about her  _father_? He was still out there, somewhere, and even if the wolf was  _here_ , her father was still facing Sirius Black, who had already tried to kill him once.

The dog turned to her again, and it barked once, twice; it jerked its head, and suddenly the message was clear.

 _Run_ , the dog was telling her,  _Go_.

"He's going to get free again —" she started and the dog cut her off with another bark, and a low growl; the wolf stirred again, and the dog leapt atop of it, tackling it to the ground. The wolf's fangs snapped, and the dog yelped. The pair rolled in the grass, and then suddenly, the wolf was on top — it took off at a run, loping towards the forest, and the dog spared one more glance at her. It barked forcefully, and jerked its head again, towards the castle — Calista wondered wildly how the dog could possibly communicate its intentions so clearly, it was almost as if it were  _human_  — and then the dog growled, and tore off after the wolf, into the night.

Calista collected herself, clammy hands and trembling limbs and wooden feet and all, and forced herself forward, toward the tree, rather than back to the safety of the castle, where the dog had directed her. She couldn't go without finding her father, without making certain that he was all right.

 _Dad_ , she called out again and again; and each time she did so to utter silence, she felt the gaping hole in her gut open up wider, but  _still_  she refused to consider the possibility that he couldn't respond, and told herself grimly that he must have moved, that he must now be too far away.

There was no one by the tree when she arrived, but she realised with a start what was odd about the scene; the tree's limbs were waving and pounding wildly at the air, like they always did, but — she could have  _sworn_  that when she'd glimpsed the silhouetted branches earlier, against the silver-dark moonlit sky, the branches had been perfectly still. How could that be?

She crept closer, alert for any sign of her father, or the dementors, or the wolf. It was silent though, except for the incessant  _whoosh_  of the branches, tearing through the night air.

"Dad?" she called; her voice echoed in the darkness. No one answered her.

She thought she heard the whine of an injured animal in the distance; she winced, hoping that the dog was all right. Whatever manner of creature it was, it had undoubtedly helped her escape from the wolf; but she didn't have time to go after the dog, or even worry about the dog;  _she had to find her father_. She had to accept the likelihood that wherever her father was, he was still with Sirius Black — and if Sirius had hurt her father at all, if there was evidence of even the tiniest scratch on him — she'd use the spell, she vowed; she'd use the  _Sectumsempra_  spell this time.

Calista inspected the clearing by the tree thoroughly, or as thoroughly as she could without stepping into the sinister willow's path, but there was nothing she could uncover, no clue that told her where her father had gone, and  _still_  her mental probes were coming back hollow and unreturned.

Suddenly, she felt a shiver roll down her spine, and her blood began to run cold.  _No_ ; but she knew at once what it was, knew the heavy, icy feeling that was invading her, and it was only a matter of seconds before the visions started…

_The silver flash of a knife; she can't move, she's struggling so hard but it's as if she's bound from head to toe with invisible cords. Her mother steps closer, and Calista feels a chill, as her robes are split, unceremoniously, from neck to waist._

_She knows what's going to happen next, but like always, she is powerless to stop it, and now — just like the first time — there is no one to call for help. There is no one who will answer her._

Calista struggled to hold onto her wand, turning her head this way and that, searching for the dementor — she had to hold on long enough to locate it, and to aim her pathetic, non-corporeal Patronus towards it; it was her only chance. And then she saw what was coming, and her stomach clenched suddenly, forcefully. She would have been sick, if she had eaten anything at all that day.

A cluster of dementors, gliding towards her from the direction of the lake. Six of them — no, eight, ten of them, easily a dozen; they glided into full view, creeping closer. In the distance, she saw a flash of silver, but if it  _was_  a Patronus, it was too far away to reach them, and at any rate, it seemed to be driving them  _towards_  her, rather than away.

 _Dad_ , she called out, but she knew by then that he wasn't going to answer her; she realised grimly that she had to stop wasting her strength on trying to reach him, because it suddenly felt as if she had precious little of it left.

The dementors slid closer, and with them came the wave of ice, the terror, and the visions, rapid, one after the other; Calista used every bit of willpower she could summon to remain on her feet, to keep her wand gripped in her hand, and to try to remind herself that  _it wasn't real_ , or at the very least, it wasn't  _now_.

_The pain is sharp, hot where the knife hits, but she's so cold everywhere else. She can't breathe, anymore; her nose is blocked, with her own snot and tears, but perhaps it's merciful — perhaps she can suffocate in this blackness, and then she won't need to feel any more pain._

"Expecto…" Calista mumbled; she  _needed_ to do this, now more than ever in her life. She reached deep into her mind, pulling all of the memories that had helped her, before; the ones that had allowed her to see through the dissolving blackness, when the pain came rushing back, the ones that had allowed her to cast her Patronus once before — the ones that had granted her the gradual re-emergence of it.

_She sees the waxy-white of her skin, the blood-red scars, sharp and deep and vibrant against the surface of her skin —_

"Expecto…"

She tugged at a memory, pulling it forcefully up to the surface of her mind.

_A soft touch, almost unbearably gentle and light; and then the familiar warmth of Gerald's mouth, near her ears, his breath on her neck._

' _It's not really all that clear,' he murmured softly; after a moment, he added, 'I'm not certain I would have known what it was, if you hadn't already told me. Some of the lines are quite faint…'_

_Still, she had lived with the pain of these scars so long; the memory of the fleeting pain on her skin when they'd been set there, but even longer and more fiercely, the aching, wrenching pain of knowing that they were there, that they would surely drive anyone away who saw them…_

_Gerald's hand slid, warm, over her shoulder, along her neck, and she felt the most wonderful, pleasing sort of tingle, all along her skin, as his fingers traced the outer edge of her ear; and then his mouth was by it, again, telling her exactly what she needed to hear._

' _Mon colibri,' he said, 'I hope you still realise — tu es belle, et je veux te toucher.'_

The image of the scars didn't fade away, precisely, but it was as if the newer, happier memory — the one with Gerald — overlaid it, overpowered it. She shivered, but she could have sworn that the cold was retreating, slightly; or perhaps she was only growing more accustomed to it.

She realised belatedly that while she'd been trying to fight the vision of the scars away, the dementors had begun to surround her; they were around her on all sides now, growing closer and closer with each passing second…

_Her mother advances on her, wand drawn. Calista knows, she knows by the gleam in her eye what's about to happen._

_She's going to scream, when the pain hits; she doesn't want to, doesn't want to give her mother the satisfaction, doesn't want to watch the satisfied grin light up her mother's face, but she can't help it. She screws up her eyes, shutting them tightly. If she can't stop the pain, perhaps at least she can least stop herself from having to see her mother's face go like that._

' _Cru—' she hears, and she starts to scream, before the curse even hits her, even though it doesn't do any good, because no one ever hears her — no one ever comes —_

"Expecto…" Calista gasped, wrenching for another memory; she found one, clutching it desperately to the forefront of her mind.

_Her screams echoed off the stone walls, as she sat bolt upright, struggling to break free from whatever spell it was that held her bound — and then she heard her name, breaking through her own cacophony._

' _Calista! It's not real, it's only a dream.'_

_She started to cry, clawing at her magical bonds — and then all at once, she realised three things: her mother's' house didn't have stone walls; the voice that was talking to her wasn't a scary one at all; and it was only the tangle of her own blankets and sheets that were holding her captive._

_Her father flicked his wand at the lamp in the corner, and then he crossed the tiny room in a single stride, perching on the edge of her bed and reaching for her; he extracted her carefully from her tangle of blankets, and pulled her into her arms._

" _She can't hurt you anymore," he murmured, and she knew that in the morning she would lift her chin and pretend this night hadn't happened, but for the moment she gave in, and let him hold her, stilling the trembling of her arms and legs; she let her head rest on his shoulder, and she let herself believe that it was true, and that the next time she cried out for rescue, it would come._

This memory, too, overlaid the earlier one, not quite obscuring it, but dimming it; or rather, shining through it, and over it. But the dementors were still creeping closer… they were within a metre of her now, and she could feel her legs buckling from their trembling; she could feel her breath freezing in her lungs.

' _Hem hem'. Calista dreads that sound already, dreads the vulture-like look on the woman, Madam Umbridge's, face._

_She forces Mr. Croaker to explain the page she's drawn their attention to._

' _It's a letter,' Croaker says gruffly, 'Advising that Miss Snape is not to be in possession of a Time Turner, by Ministry Order.'_

_Calista is well-acquainted with the letter; she forces herself to follow as much of their conversation as he can bear to, even as her heart fills with lead and begins to sink to the pit of her stomach; she'll never end up with the Charms Committee now..._

' _Yes, yes,' Umbridge practically purrs, 'Relatives in Azkaban — well, I believe_ one  _of them may have recently escaped?"_

_Calista protests, but what's the point? It's clear that Umbridge has already made up her mind; and she's right, she saw it in the woman's face and now she sees it in the woman's actions, as she declares that the entire Ministry has a right to know about the potential risk she poses; matter of factly, she waves her wand, sending the paper into the 'Completed' pile — and sending any possibility of a future for Calista into the dustbin, at the same time._

' _The letter stays', she says firmly; Calista can feel anger, and hurt eating her from the inside out. It doesn't matter how hard she's worked, it doesn't matter what she_ wants _— she'll never escape her mother's shadow._

The cloaked figures closed in on Calista; the chill of their presence was freezing her bones now, and she couldn't have moved even if there had been a path to safety; but there wasn't. The creatures were shoulder-to-shoulder now, surrounding her. She heard the icy rattling of an indrawn breath, and then a chorus of it echoing around her. She grew, unbelievably, colder.

Darkness was closing in on her like the ranks of the dementors, but her efforts were  _working_ , somehow; she knew they were, because she'd lost her grip on reality much quicker than this before, every time she'd come near  _one_  of the dementors — and now, incredibly, she was still standing — albeit frozen in terror and despair — but she was  _still standing_ , and there were a dozen of them, all around her.

She reached into her mind again, pulling out another memory — the countercurse to the dementors' latest assault.

 _Calista hardly believed the events of the afternoon, so far; hardly believed the demonstration that she'd performed, for members of the Committee on Experimental Charms; hardly dared to believe she'd gotten to_ meet _two of them._

 _Not only that, but she'd overcome something terrible, something that perhaps only her father had realised she was struggling with, but — she'd managed to bury the memory of the rat, at least for now, to push herself beyond it, to prevent the classroom from melting away into the blackness of despair, and she'd managed to impress these two Ministry men who could influence her future, and who_ knew who she was _and still wanted to help her._

_And then, Mr. Wimple was explaining that they wanted her to work with them on research for the Committee, and if she had ever once had a dream as good as this, she would have suspected at once that that was what this was; but she never did, the only dreams she remembered were nightmares, and now Mr. Ivanforth was confirming Mr. Wimple's offer._

' _... we would likely be looking to enlist you to work with us one day a week, on a fairly regular basis. So; what do you think, Miss Snape? Are you interested?'_

_It was the most wonderful news she could imagine, the most wonderful opportunity she could envision — her heart soared as she stammered an agreement._

Again, the newer memory rose to the surface, obscuring the darker scene from her past; she could feel herself growing stronger, as the memories anchored themselves here, in the forefront of her mind; she could feel her brain, her fingers thawing, even as the dementors crept even closer, breathing their death rattle in her ears.

The assault of icy despair continued incessantly — but for every moment of darkness they hurled at her, she reached within and found a newer, stronger, answering moment of light.

 _The creeping, pervading chill of her mother's mind, slipping into her own — the old terror returns, as she feels her mind, her_ self _ripped mercilessly away; her mind is unraveled forcefully, the threads fed into a tall, cold wall that keeps her from calling her father for help — her mother has taken over her mind, her mother is going to destroy her, here inside her own_ head _._

_And then, she wakes up, and she is safe, protected in a small corner of her own mind, and surrounded by her best memories. She sees a gentle-eyed man reading to her, and she forgets, for a moment, to be afraid of him. She sees her father teasing her, comforting her in the night, protecting her; she sees him whisper to her spirit-self, to the tiny piece of her that had remained behind, trying to fight her mother: 'I love you,' he had whispered, 'My strong, clever daughter.'_

Calista felt the memories lighting her up, piece by piece, even as the cold kept advancing, as if it were bent on destroying her.

_She feels the prick of shame and the sharp, acrid pain of fear, as her father spells out what she should have known all along; her mother has infiltrated her mind again, has begun to place anchor points, intent on carrying out another attack, on ensnaring her mind once more — and she doesn't know, this time, if she'll survive the encounter._

She did survive it, though; she remembered learning to find and remove the anchor points, and, finally, growing strong enough and disciplined enough to keep her mother out, forever.

And then, she remembered something else, and she pulled that to the front of her mind, as well. She remembered the first time she had put her legilimency skill to work for something other than her own protection; she'd used it against Gerald's father, and she had not only managed it wandlessly and undetected, but she had managed to extract all of the information that they needed to uncover his plan, and now, for his mother to help him  _stop_ it.

The dementors were upon her now, and suddenly their hands were reaching out; she could feel the tap of long, sharp fingernails against her skin; hands gripped her arms, and she started; it was the first time she had managed to move in however long she'd been standing here.

The assault of dark images sailed at her now, and she fought as hard and as defiantly as she had  _ever_  done, answering each of them as quickly as they came; she answered her fear of being judged as evil for being in Slytherin with the friendships she had cultivated outside of her house; and she countered her  _own_  fear of going bad because of her House with her conversation, with Daisy, back at the beginning of the school year.

' _What's the point of being brave, and smart, and kind if you're not going to do anything with it?' Daisy had challenged, 'that's where we need the Slytherin bit — the ambition. To actually_ change _things.'_

Calista realised with a jolt that it was true; and that, unwittingly, piece by piece, all year long, she had been taking steps in precisely that direction. She had helped Gerald, with his father; she had protected her father and herself, by eliminating Marcus' knowledge of her developing legilimency; she had gotten her research published and earned the chance to work on truly amazing discoveries, including the chance to help Gerald with the development of his Armour Charm, by impressing the Committee on Experimental Charms enough to allow her to work with them  _fresh out of school_ , which was utterly unheard of…

She gasped, and let out a strangled cry that nearly froze in her throat, as one of the dementors wrapped its fingers around her neck; it was leaning over her now, and she realised… she realised that Gerald had been absolutely right, when he'd warned her, and warned the Ministry, that these were after all Dark creatures, and that they could not be trusted… especially when they were hungry...

It occurred to her, as the rotting, corpse-like fingers gripped her even tighter, that perhaps the creatures thought they were doing their job, after all — perhaps they smelled her mother on her, sensed her Darkness within her; perhaps they thought they were about to Kiss Bellatrix…

Once, when Calista was small, she might have voluntarily submitted herself to the Dementor's Kiss; in her young life, she had seen so much pain and terror, and she hadn't known how to feel anything else, and it would have seemed like a relief to give up her soul, to succumb to an absence of feeling… but  _now_ , she had so much to live for.

She knew kindness, and at last she'd learned to understand it; she'd gone from puzzling at the strange man and his soft voice at the other end of the sofa to making the decision to spare his life, even when he was in a form as Dark as any; even when his eyes had glittered with hunger and his teeth had seemed to drip with murder, because  _she knew better than anybody_  that what was on the outside wasn't the whole story; she knew those kind eyes and the advice to  _find a purpose_  in her pain was still somewhere in there, behind the teeth and the fur.

She had love; she had a love that she had not been able to conceive of before it had crept up on her, and wrapped her securely in its embrace; she had the love of a kind, clever young man whose touch made her skin and her heart light up, who smelled like antidote and books and tenderness, and not only did she have all of that, but she had given  _him_  love too, that he needed just as much; she was his protective rune, his  _Colibri_.

She had her father, too; and it was this knowledge that skittered around in her mind, in what was beginning to look very much like her final moment of awareness — she had him, and he had her, and there was no possible way to sum up their bond, and their connection, and their love, and their  _family_  in a matter of seconds, which was all she had left, now; but she had one other thing. She had the reminder, fierce and sudden and sharp, that  _her father was in danger_ , and that she was the only one who knew.

She heard his voice, suddenly, in her ear.

' _You are not like her,' her father had said, 'Because Bellatrix has never been able to produce a Patronus'._

At the time, the words had made her feel hollow and defeated, because she had lost hers in the aftermath of recovering her worst memory, the proof of her mother's ultimate abuse of her, the thing that she had once feared would drag her incessantly down into the darkness; but now…

 _I'm not like her_ , Calista realised,  _I'll never be like her, and she'll never win, because she can't break me; I have too much holding me together, now._

She felt the old, familiar, deep ache of pain she always had, when it came to her mother; she would never be rid of it, but so much had happened that it was no longer the largest part of her. It struck her, in a sudden and seemingly final moment of clarity, as the dementor's gaping mouth reached for hers, that it was  _because_  of the pain she had gone through that she could love deeply enough to overcome it.

 _Because_  she knew death and she knew hatred, she knew how incredibly beautiful and necessary it was to live, and to love; and, perhaps most importantly of all, Bellatrix had  _not_  broken her — but as her father had told her, Bellatrix had helped to make her powerful enough to do precisely what her seventeen-year-old self had whispered, when she'd watched her mother torture her younger, smaller self.

' _Calista,' her mother had goaded, once, in the moment before she'd inflicted the most damaging, crippling memory of Calista's life, 'Do you know what good little girls do?'_

_And with her father's hand at her shoulder, and a decade of growing stronger behind her, she'd suddenly known the answer, though it would be almost another year before she properly understood it:_

' _They grow up,' she'd said, 'And they learn to fight you.'_

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she yelled now, with her last breath, before the dementors could steal it away — and suddenly, the hands fell off her, and the icy, rattling breaths retreated, and Calista couldn't even make out their retreating shadows, in the sudden, blinding silver light that washed over the clearing, driving them back.

Calista stumbled to her knees, catching her breath; her heart was still pounding, and the deep cold that had invaded her skin, her blood, her bones, felt heavy as it slipped away; she was lightheaded and dizzy, and she felt the acid in her empty stomach fighting its way up as the dementors were driven back, but she was bathed in light and she was  _alive_ , and she very much still had possession of her soul.

She retched in the grass, feeling the exhaustion, and the struggle, and the sheer  _terror_  of the night weighing on her; her forearms trembled as she steadied herself on them, and it took nearly everything she had left to keep herself from collapsing in the grass; but her father was still out there, somewhere, and she had come out here to find him. She wouldn't give up without doing so.

She wiped her mouth, and got slowly back to her feet, and at last the light of her Patronus had faded enough that she could begin to make out its shape; she saw the last distant shadow of the dementors disappear over the horizon, and then she saw her Patronus wheel back, coming towards her, and she registered what it was, and she threw back her head and  _laughed_ , almost hysterically.

She reached out towards it as it approached, and it made to nuzzle her hand, as if it were made of flesh and not just magic. Its dark-silvery eyes locked on hers for a minute, and she had the strangest sensation that her Patronus  _was_  near to flesh; it certainly knew who she was, knew that she had summoned it.

"I see you, too," she murmured, and it nuzzled her hand again, and then spread its great wings wide, and — without warning, took off into the sky, wheeling overhead.

She smiled, despite herself and despite  _everything_. She recalled the indistinct shapes she'd glimpsed, in her earlier attempts, and the blinding silver-white light that had erupted when she'd driven the dementors off; she hadn't been able to see, then, but she supposed now that she  _should_ have known, all along, what she would see, when she finally looked up.

It was a thestral.

And she realised that it hadn't yet disappeared, even though her cat surely would have by now. Instead, it continued to circle overhead, while her eyes lifted to the night sky to follow it; and then, it looked down, and it seemed to understand somehow that she was watching it, and it began to fly — not up, but  _away_  — in the direction of the lake. In the direction that the dementors had come from.

She followed it for a few steps, but then stopped, uncertain — what if there were  _more_  of them. Would her Patronus be able to fight them all off, again?

The silvery thestral stopped again, when she did; and then again, it flew forward, and paused. She realised with a start that it wanted her to  _follow_  it, and then all at once, at last, she understood  _why._

Her Patronus was a reflection of  _her_ , of the things she loved and the things she desired; and what had she been thinking of, so desperately, when she had summoned it? She'd been consumed by the need to  _find her father_ , and now her Patronus was trying to show her where he was.

She followed the thestral, towards the lake.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Her Patronus began to fade, as she grew closer; she could start to see the night sky through its thin, leathery wingspan, and then through its legs, and then straight through its skeletal body; finally, it disappeared altogether.

Briefly, she considered summoning it again, but she was almost to the lake now, which was where it had seemed to be leading her, and she didn't know what she might encounter, there; she reckoned she'd better keep her wand at the ready, and go as quietly as she could manage. She might be walking into the clutches of a mass-murdering Death Eater; there was no sense in announcing her presence with a brilliantly glowing, very large winged beacon.

She decided to try to call out again, as she grew closer, though by now she had lost all hope of a reply.

 _Dad_? She called out, sending a tendril of thought into the black, empty night —

 _Calista?!_ Almost immediately, she received a response, dark and heavy with panic; and then just as quickly, an urgent follow-up.

_Where are you? What are you doing out here? Are you hurt?_

His presence felt incredibly close, and she was mentally and physically exhausted; she decided to try calling out verbally, again.

"Dad?" she called, and then suddenly he was scrambling over the rise of the bank towards her; he was pale and trembling and there was dried blood on his forehead, and she hardly had time register any of that before she was swiftly caught up in his grip, hand around her arm like a vise.

" _What the bloody hell are you doing out here?"_ he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, "Calista, there are dementors and a  _murderer and — CALISTA, THERE'S A BLOODY WEREWOLF ON THE LOOSE —!_ "

"I — I know," she managed; she was suddenly overcome with not only her earlier exhaustion, but also dizzying, overwhelming  _relief_ , that she had found him, and that he was all right. She stumbled, and nearly fell, and he caught her with one arm, the other still brandishing his wand back in the direction he had come from.

"That's why I'm out here," she said, "I — I saw the map, that map thing on Rem — on Prof — on Lupin's desk, and I saw that  _you_  were out here, with… with him, and with Sirius Black, and the potion was still there, he hadn't taken it, and I… I had to come find you."

Severus gaped. His grip on her tightened, turning his knuckles as white as his face. "Are you — have you gone completely fucking  _mad_?" he demanded, voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper, "You should have gone for help —"

"I couldn't find any."

"Then you should have  _stayed put_ , in the castle, where it is  _safe_ — Calista, you could so easily have been killed tonight _,_ or —" his eyes flashed, and he finished in a sudden choking croak: "Or worse."

Once, she might have asked what could possibly be worse than death; but she had very nearly faced that tonight, as well, and she knew. She didn't need to ask.

"Well," she managed, and despite the strength she'd found earlier, her body was wracked with a sudden shiver; he was  _right_ , she could have been, and she very nearly  _had_ , truth be told. But she couldn't tell him that, now; he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. "I wasn't," she said, instead, "And — and you weren't either, which is… which is honestly what I was more afraid of."

Her shiver didn't end, though; it kept going, and intensified, as she was talking — and then she realised it wasn't a shiver at all, she was  _crying_ , with relief and fear and exhaustion and gods even knew what else; her entire body shook with it, and she was suddenly incredibly grateful for her father's grip, holding her up, even if it was uncomfortably tight.

Then, in the distance, there was an eerie howl; she  _did_  shiver now, and so did her father, and then he was tugging her along, back down the rise towards the lake, face set as grimly as she'd ever seen it.

"Stay with me," he commanded, as they cleared the ridge of the hill, and she gasped as she made out the shapes of four people, lying still on the ground —

"They're all going to be all right," he said, grimly; and then he shoved her partially behind him as he bent over the closest figure, one with an impossibly skinny frame and long, matted hair — her lungs tightened, as she recognised the features; not from her memory, it was too far changed from that, but from the prison photos that had been plastered all over the  _Daily Prophet_.

"That's him," she whispered, "That's Sirius Black."

"Yes," her father confirmed grimly, "And I don't anticipate him coming 'round anytime soon, but just in case he does, stay with me and keep your wand ready."

She nodded, and forced herself to obey, despite her weak limbs and her tired mind. Her father conjured stretchers, attaching Black and the others each to one, and then he lifted them all, with his wand.

"If you see him so much as twitch," her father said darkly, "Incapacitate him — I don't care how you do it, but make sure that you do."

They walked quickly towards the castle, the stretchers floating ahead of them, in a grim and heavy silence.

"I'm really glad you're okay," Calista said quietly, when they were about halfway there, "But why didn't you answer me before? I was calling you for —"  _for hours_ , she almost said, but she didn't know if that were actually true or if it had only felt that way. "I called out for you about twenty times, before you finally answered," she said, instead.

He took a sharp breath, and then he looked at her, teeth bared.

"I'll answer you later, when we're safely at the castle," he said, "And  _you_ will answer me as to why in Merlin's name you decided to foolishly disobey every single rule I've ever set you, though I can't imagine there is an explanation you can offer which will even  _begin_  to suffice."

"Dad, I already told you…" she started, but he hissed, cutting her off.

"I don't want to hear it, at the moment," he said, and then, ominously: "There will be plenty of time for you to explain once we are safely inside the castle, since I haven't any intention of letting you out of my sight again."

"For how long?" she wondered; she was dead tired already, and she had a feeling the night's events still were not over.

" _Forever_ ," he snapped, gesturing with his wand to the stretcher that carried Sirius Black; it wobbled a little, but stayed afloat, "For Merlin's sake, I told you to keep an eye on that!"

"I have been. He hasn't moved. Dad, why did  _you_  go out… don't you realise  _you_  could have easily been killed, as well?"

Her father didn't answer her.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus was every bit as good as his word; while Harry Potter and his friends were admitted to the hospital wing, and Sirius Black was hauled away to be held prisoner somewhere until the dementors could be fetched, he demanded that Calista stay not only nearby, but where he could see her.

Once, Professor Dumbledore had dared to suggest that Calista be excused to go to bed, and the look that Severus gave him was so ferocious that she had cause to wonder, briefly and wildly, if  _he_  was suddenly turning into a werewolf.

The Minister for Magic himself was summoned, and even  _still,_  even as Severus and Professor Dumbledore relayed the events of the night to Minister Fudge, who cast a series of questioning looks in Calista's direction, her father would not let her take one step outside of his field of vision.

She yawned while the Minister promised her father an Order of Merlin; gods, she was so  _tired_ , and it was hard to concentrate on anything. She was wildly relieved that her father was all right, and that Sirius Black had been apprehended, and still jumbled up with fear over the events of the night and the fact that there was still a werewolf loose on the grounds; but none of that could quite compete with the intense desire to crawl into bed. She had a fervent and heartfelt thought that she  _would_  like to get married, after all, and not someday — she wanted to get married, right now, to her pillow.

Finally, it sounded as if they were wrapping up at last — they were discussing Sirius Black's fate, and that was what finally caught Calista's attention.

"I only hope that Dumbledore's not going to make difficulties," her father was saying grimly, "The Kiss will be performed immediately?"

Calista shivered. Fudge answered, that they were waiting on MacNair — with a brief jolt, she remembered that Portia's father was an executioner for the Ministry, and that he'd been scheduled to be there that very day to put down the hippogriff that had savaged her cousin; though truth be told, she  _still_  wasn't certain she completely believed his account of things.

Fudge was saying something about the  _Daily Prophet_  now, about making an announcement, and about them interviewing her father, but Calista's mind was looping back to a moment before, to something her father had said.

' _The Kiss will be performed immediately?'_ She felt her heart pound, and the memory of her blood turning to ice in her veins was suddenly too close and too real; it struck her that after very nearly suffering that fate  _herself_  this evening, she couldn't fathom the thought of inflicting that penalty upon  _anyone_ , no matter what they had done.

"Dad," she started quietly; she didn't know what she would say, exactly, but she felt like she ought to say  _something_ ; she had to make them see, the Kiss wasn't an acceptable way to punish  _anyone_ ; surely it would be kinder to kill him, if there was no other option.

Severus didn't hear her, or he ignored her. MacNair was here now, every bit as portly and sniffly as his daughter, and she feared that he would bring a contingent of dementors behind her, but she couldn't see them, even though she could feel the chill creeping into her bones again. She slipped her hand to her pocket, for her wand.

"Dementors are already going up," MacNair grunted, "Need a witness, Minister."

Fudge nodded, and then he sent a questioning look to Severus. "Snape?" he asked, "Would you like to witness this, too? After all, you were the one that apprehended him."

"Oh, yes," Severus said quickly, and a bit  _too_  eagerly; Calista felt a pang of horror. How could he possibly want to witness  _that_? "I most certainly would."

It was even worse than it seemed, though; evidently, Severus was still not willing to let Calista ought of his sight. He gripped her arm, leading her down the corridor with him and with the Minister, following after MacNair.

"Dad, no," she protested, wriggling to free herself, "I don't want — I don't want to see  _that_."

"Then close your eyes," her father snapped, and it struck her as so horribly insensitive that she wrenched herself free, and glared at him.

"How can  _you_  want to watch?" she demanded, "How can you want to have that  _done_  to someone?"

" _Enough_ , Calista," he hissed, "We'll discuss this later."

They had reached the proper corridor, now; at the end, in front of a locked door, were a pair of dementors. Calista shivered, and wrapped her fingers around her wand —

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," her father said, almost lazily — Calista wondered for a second why he hadn't let her cast, and then she remembered that he didn't know she  _could_ ; she hadn't actually told him any of what had happened to  _her_  that night; it seemed absurd, somehow, that she could have gone through such a massively life-changing evening, and he had no idea.

Severus aimed his wand at the silver doe, controlling it; instead of bounding down the hall to where the dementors stood guard, it walked between himself and Calista; evidently, he had summoned it just to prevent the worst of the effects from reaching her… but their pull on her, their ability to chill her was sufficiently diminished, and she thought privately that she would have rather had her own Patronus, her brilliant, beautiful thestral, to stand beside her.

Something else still seemed absurd, and maybe it was  _because_  her father had no idea what she'd been through — what had nearly happened to her — that he didn't seem to see the problem with what was about to happen to Sirius Black.

It certainly wasn't that she didn't think he should be punished, because of course she did; but to literally take his soul seemed as inhumane as all of the unspeakable acts that  _he_  had committed. And still, she couldn't help but remember that whatever else he had done in his miserable, dark life, he  _had_  once saved her… absurdly, she wished suddenly that she could go into the room first, that she could talk to him for a minute, ask him why he had saved her; after all, in light of the crimes he had committed afterwards, it couldn't have been simply a desire to do the right thing; and it had not seemed at the time that he'd done it simply to spite her mother, either. So then why had he bothered?

They reached the door and MacNair unlocked it and put his hand to the knob, pushing it open. The dementors swooped in, and Calista opened her mouth, intending to make one last, desperate plea to explain why they couldn't do what they were about to.

"Dad, please, w—"

And then the corridor erupted into a cacophony of mingled voices, raised in panic and anger, and it took Calista a few seconds to piece together enough words to understand why.

Sirius Black was gone. The room was empty.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Her father roared with fury, spittle flying from his mouth as he bellowed wildly, almost nonsensically about Potter, Potter had had something to do with Black's disappearance. Calista tried to slip away, because she had never seen her father  _quite_  like this; his rage was quiet, always; he hissed or he snarled, but he did not bellow and spit.

She retreated, and then, in a sudden, jerking movement that made her start, he wrapped his fingers around her arm, viselike once more, and he practically dragged her down the corridor with him, howling his rage at the Minister the whole way.

He would not hear reason, no matter how much of it Fudge hurled at him; although Calista had to admit, her father did have  _one_  solid point: however Black had escaped, he could not have Apparated, not from within the castle.

They met Professor Dumbledore outside the hospital wing, but Severus did not wait for an invitation or even say a word to the Headmaster before he burst through the door.  At long last, he let go of Calista's arm to do so, and she started again as the door was slammed open with a loud  _bang!_

"OUT WITH IT, POTTER," her father bellowed, voice vibrating off the stone walls with enough force to make her wince; she had  _never_  seen him like this, not once; she wondered once more, and not quite as cheekily as she usually did, whether he had been Polyjuiced; but his fierce grip on her arm, at least, had been familiar.

Calista crept to the doorway, largely so she could hold herself up against it; she didn't think she had ever been so tired in her life, and she was still dizzy, and her stomach felt raw and tight.

The Minister and Madame Pomfrey both tried to calm him down, but it was no use; finally, it was Professor Dumbledore who spoke with a logic and calm that she knew her father would surely find maddening, in his current state.

"That will do, Severus," the Headmaster said, "think about what you are saying. This door has been locked since I left the ward ten minutes ago. Madam Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?"

"Of course not!" the mediwitch huffed, "I would have heard them!"

"Well, there you have it, Severus," the Headmaster said; and it struck Calista that the Headmaster was  _lying_ , though she didn't have the faintest idea how she knew; she hadn't tried to read him, didn't think she had the strength to even  _try_ , but somehow she knew that he was lying,  _and_  that he was goading her father. "Unless you are suggesting that Harry and Hermione can be in two places at once, I'm afraid I don't see any point in troubling them further."

Her father's entire frame stiffened, and then, in a huff, he turned and marched out of the hospital wing; he caught her up by the arm again on the way by, and begin to march her towards his quarters; they weren't even ten steps away before he stopped in the corridor, wheeling on her; his face was suddenly inches from hers, his teeth bared. His eyes were wild, dark with something beyond even his usual ire.

"And  _you_ ," he hissed, but his voice began to rise almost immediately after he'd started speaking, "What the bloody  _hell_  do you think  _you_  were playing at, running off into the night — when you  _knew_  what was out there; what's gotten into your head, Calista?"

"I…" she was exhausted, but suddenly, she was also hurt, and more than a little angry; she'd already  _told_ him why she'd gone out; did he really think that she had made the decision lightly, or that there was any part of her that wasn't still cloaked in terror from the things she'd seen? But he  _still_ didn't know…

"You  _what?!_ " Severus demanded, and he was roaring now, voice filling the corridor; she shrank away from him, and for some reason, that seemed to make him even angrier. "You decided to try and play the part of a bone-headed Gryffindor for an evening — practising for joining the bloody Order, are you —"

" _Severus_."

It was Severus who started now, at the sound of a remarkably even voice at his shoulder. He snarled, turning to face the Headmaster, who had come up behind him. Calista didn't see where the Minister had gone; she inched away from her father, nervously, as soon as he released his hold on her arm.

"This is your doing," her father snarled over his shoulder at the Headmaster, "Don't think you can play me for a fool, Albus — I know  _exactly_  what you were doing."

"Do you?" the Headmaster asked; he glanced over Severus' shoulder at Calista, and she could feel his gaze on her, soft and light. Perhaps it was because she was so drained, but she couldn't even properly interpret his look, this time; she had no idea if he were checking on her, or attempting to comfort her, or trying to break down her barriers and enter her mind. She was too goddamned tired to care.

"You were feeling her out," Severus accused, "Trying to see if you could mold her, if you could — could draw her to your cause; this nonsense about phoenixes —"

"Calista," the Headmaster interrupted her father, still peering directly at her, "Did I say anything to you that suggested I was trying to recruit you to any sort of…" and he paused so that the word came out in a way that made the entire thing seem ridiculous, "... cause?"

"I don't know," Calista whispered; she wondered if either one of them would care if she simply curled up here on the floor of the first-floor corridor, and went to sleep.

" _Leave her alone_ ," Severus hissed; and even Calista knew that he was crossing the line, that it was not at all appropriate for him to speak to the Headmaster like this, but he pushed on, doggedly. "I have made my wishes quite clear; she is not your puppet, Albus, or your soldier or your  _spy_  or anything else, and she never will be."

"Puppet?" the Headmaster said, brow quirked, "I would never dream of such a thing; but as for the rest of it — don't you think, if the time comes, that such a decision would best be left up to Calista, herself?"

"You — you —" Severus stuttered; and then he shook his head, "You cannot do this! We had a bargain — I've been keeping your secrets — even the one about that wretched  _beast_ , and I  _will not_  anymore —"

"Oh?" The Headmaster's expression remained remarkably calm, even in the face of Severus' rage. His gaze slid, once more, to Calista. "I don't believe you're telling me the truth, Severus."

Severus glanced back as well, and he blanched, suddenly deflated.

"Tell me, Calista," the Headmaster went on conversationally, "How long have you been aware of Professor Lupin's condition?"

"She figured it out on her own," her father said hoarsely, but all three of them knew that Dumbledore didn't believe him.

"I see," Dumbledore said, and then: "Well; the Minister is waiting for me to rejoin him, and I daresay that young Calista looks very much like she is in dire need of some sleep; you do have a N.E.W.T. exam in the morning, my dear, do you not?"

Calista blinked; she realised for the first time that evening that he was right.

"I have… I have Charms," she managed, and it occurred to her that  _this_  was perhaps nearly as terrifying a realisation as when she'd first seen the dementors gliding towards her. She had her Charms N.E.W.T. tomorrow, and she was so dead on her feet she could hardly stand; and if there was  _one_  exam that she had to ace, it was  _this_ one.

"Then I highly suggest you try and get a few hours rest," the Headmaster said, not unkindly, and then he was gone.

Severus reached for her arm again, but she wriggled it free, keeping pace alongside him instead; she had begun to feel a dull ache in the spot where he'd been gripping her arm all night.

She could think of nothing else but her impending Charms exam, and the Headmaster's recommendation during the entire trek to the dungeons, which suddenly seemed a hundred times longer than normal. She followed her father wordlessly into his office, and waited for him to open the far door, to his quarters, so she could stumble down the hall to her room, and fall into what was certain to be a deep and dreamless sleep; she was too exhausted for her mind to bring her any sort of visions, of that she was certain.

Sleep, however, was evidently not what her father had in mind for her; as soon as they were in his office, he wheeled on her, again.

"How could you do this?" he whispered, and at least it was preferable to his shouting earlier; she could see the terror, naked, in his eyes, but she was too exhausted even for empathy. She stared blankly back. "How could you risk your life, and terrify me like this —?"

"I could ask  _you_  the same question," she snapped back, raggedly, and then: "I called out for you a  _hundred_ times, and you didn't answer."

"I couldn't," he told her, plainly, "I was knocked unconscious, by Potter and his bloody friends, left surely with the intention that I die, at the hands of the mass-murderer and the werewolf —"

She felt her jaw drop; her fears had been grounded, then, in reason; that thought sent her shivering uncontrollably, as if she were suddenly surrounded by dementors again.

"But none of that was the most terrifying part of the evening," he told her, "No — that was the moment when I realised that my suddenly bone-headed daughter had run out into the night, utterly heedless of the fact that she might have been killed at any second —"

He started the lecture up again, leaning towards her, and even though she knew that it was his terror that was in control, that in the morning, he would be hollow and soft, and he would remember how to hold onto her without hurting her, she had had  _enough_ , suddenly, of being berated.

" _Heedless?_ " she challenged, and she meant to respond with anger, but fuck, she was  _too goddamn tired_ and too  _goddamn scared_  and  _he had no idea._ Her voice came out in a series of choked sobs, instead. "How can you even  _say_  — and it's you, it's all about  _you_ , how afraid you were and — and how cross you are now with me; but do you have  _any idea_  what  _I've_  been through tonight? Do you have any idea what it cost me, to — to 'run out into the night', as you said — fucking  _heedless_  —?"

His expression was shifting now, slowly; for the first time, it seemed to have occurred to him that perhaps everything he feared had not happened  _only_  in his imagination; or perhaps it was simply her tears, that were driving him to be reminded that she might be in need of something besides reproach, for whatever had happened, that night.

"Tell me, Calista," he said quietly, "Tell me what you've been through."

But she couldn't; she felt a sob choking her throat, and she was  _so fucking tired_ , and her limbs were made of glass and her stomach was a small, hard knot, and she  _still_  hadn't eaten anything in — what was it now, twenty-six, twenty-seven hours? More?

"I — I can't," she said quietly, "I just — I can't."

"Calista…"

"I'll show you," she whispered, and that was all that she could find the strength to do; she settled heavily on her glass limbs onto the chair across from his desk, and she pulled the memories of the evening into the forefront of her mind, and she peeled back the first layer of her defences. "Look —" she told him, wearily, "See for yourself."

He dropped into a crouch on the floor before her, and perhaps he sensed that she was so unbalanced and upset that using his wand, now, might lead to an unpredictable reaction; or perhaps he knew exactly what he was doing, when he placed his hands at the sides of her face, and looked into her eyes, and entered her mind exactly the same way that he had, that very first time.

For once in her life — and perhaps  _because_ she didn't have to speak, and also because it would have taken more strength than she had left to alter her memory for him — she held almost nothing back. She let him see every thought she'd had, every decision she'd made, every single step she'd taken that night, from the moment when she'd looked up from her revisions, suddenly hungry, and realised with a jolt that he'd been gone for forty minutes, all the way to the moment when she'd seen him, coming at her over the crest of the hill, alive against all odds.

She let him feel the way that her terror had almost overcome her, right from the very beginning — how she'd nearly fainted in Lupin's office, how she'd desperately scanned the map for someone who she could go to for help, and how she'd dismissed Dumbledore out of hand because of what her father had said, only a week ago.

She let him feel every minute of her paralysing fear; her decision  _not_ to use the spell that might have killed Lupin, and the way she had been torn, briefly, by whether that represented cowardice or mercy in her; she let him understand the moment when she'd been certain her life was about to end, when the werewolf had been bounding at her, fangs dripping and eyes seeing nothing but prey, and her shocked disbelief when the Freezing Charm had actually worked, even for a few seconds.

She allowed him to feel the heavy, uncooperative feeling in her legs as they carried her on, across the ground and to the clearing, only to find that he had already gone — and she let him feel, too, the icy terror of the dementors, the way she had known they were coming, and had not known whether she had the means to defend herself.

Ordinarily, she'd have censored at least the memories of Gerald, if nothing else — especially the parts where he had run his fingers gently over her scars, and his mouth and his fingers and his whispered words had been like the antidote to a poison that had been simmering in her veins for most of her life — but she was too tired to do anything but let the memory play itself out, and so she let him see that, and how it had started the chain that had allowed her to build herself back up, to remember the things that truly made her  _her_ , on top of all the pain.

She let him see, and feel, the clawing fingers of the dementors at her robes, her arms, against the skin of her throat — she let him feel the cloying coldness of the impending Kiss, and the way the rattling breath of the creatures had rang out around her, blocking out the rest of the world; and she let him see, at last, the way that she had answered every one of their chilling assaults with a memory that lit her up; she let him witness the building of the constellation that had saved her from the brink of a fate worse than death — and finally, she let him see the blinding light that had driven away a dozen dementors, and the way that she had collapsed, sick and exhausted to the ground, after; and the way that, after all of that, she had quietly wiped her mouth and dragged herself back to her feet, to go in search of the one person she could not imagine ever living without.

Finally, she let him see one last thing; she let him see precisely what  _she_  had seen, when she looked up for the source of the light; when she'd gazed upon the thestral, the creature reviled for its affinity with darkness and death, but that had never done anything to deserve its reputation; she let him see the moment when she had allowed the thestral to nuzzle her affectionately, and the way that she had affirmed that she could see it — had  _always_  seen it — and wasn't afraid.

She let him see the moment that she had turned her pain, at last, into purpose.

And then, promptly, she began to cry for the second time that night, with terror and sheer exhaustion, and a hollow, hysterical kind of relief, and then her father reached for her, pulling her into his arms exactly as he had when she was small, and she cried against his shoulder until she fell asleep; and just before she did, she realised one thing:

He had come, when she called, one more time.


	22. Chapter 22

Severus woke Calista up at ten minutes of eight; she growled and argued, and he could tell that she was still tired — after all, she had had only six hours of sleep since he'd walked her down the corridor to her room, in the middle of the night, and perhaps a half hour before that, where he'd let her sleep on his shoulder while he tried simultaneously to process and to ignore how close he had come, that night, to losing her.

Her six-plus hours of sleep were undoubtedly not sufficient to recover from the events of the previous night, but since he had slept approximately  _zero_  hours himself, it was difficult to feel much pity in that regard. Besides, her Charms exam started at ten o'clock, and evidently he had to make sure she remembered to eat again, on top of everything else. He had a plate of toast sent up for her to get  _something_  in her stomach, and then he informed her that he was requiring her to attend a proper breakfast in the Great Hall; he wanted  _every_   _single Slytherin_ there that morning.

He made coffee for both of them, but didn't touch his; instead, he used it as an excuse to sit across the table from his daughter, watching her. She was decidedly unhappy about being woken up, and as he watched her sulk over her toast through narrowed eyes, he felt himself growing furious all over again with her, with Albus, and with himself.

Of the three, it was most certainly easiest to be furious with her; after all, there was precious little he could do to take his fury out on Albus, and self-punishment hardly seemed necessary when the entire world seemed to be doing a fine job of it without his aid; Black had gotten away, and once again, both he and Lupin had gotten away  _with_  something, under Dumbledore's nose and indeed, Severus suspected darkly, with his bloody  _blessing_.

Calista, on the other hand — while horror had been his initial reaction to seeing the events of the night play out in her memory, he'd had a sleepless night full of tossing, turning, and brooding to decide that fury was more apt; or at any rate, it was more native, more comfortable, and a hell of a lot easier to swallow.

Predictably, Calista made an attempt to go back to bed as soon as she'd eaten her toast, and Severus stopped her with a snarled reminder that she wasn't to leave his sight, and that she was required to go to the Great Hall that morning along with every other student in her House; as he'd known it would, their conversation quickly devolved into a familiar pattern of bickering that he found suddenly, absurdly comforting.

Except — was the pattern really all that familiar? She gave in too quickly, and followed him quietly to the Great Hall; when she took a seat beside her friends, Miss Lima and Miss Selwyn, she offered them only the barest nod of greeting and turned her gaze expectantly towards the staff table; but Severus didn't take his place there, at least not immediately.

He cast an inventorying glance along the length of the Slytherin table; when he'd ascertained that he had a full house or close to it, he leaned over the centre of the table.

"I understand that many of you have your Defence N.E.W.T. on Monday," he said, smoothly, and quite loudly; he wanted to make sure every last student at the table heard him. "And since this is such a  _critical_  time, and Professor Lupin's lycanthropy may render him indisposed…"

Severus paused; a flurry of whispers ignited at the table. He glanced at a few faces in particular; Draco's was sparked with fear, and Flint sported a frown of bewilderment, until Derek Logan leaned over to explain.

"Werewolf," Logan said, and Severus would have given the boy fifty points, if he thought he could get away with it, for the way that his voice rose steadily and urgently in alarm, "He means that Professor Lupin is a  _werewolf_  — don't you, Professor Snape?"

"Oh, dear," Severus tutted, unconcerned, "It seems I've inadvertently revealed a secret — well, I can trust you all to keep it, I'm certain…"

He swung his glance to his daughter's face; her expression was unreadable. She dropped her fork, and fumbled to pick it up, giving her a very good excuse to avoid his gaze.

"And I want you all to know that I'm making myself available this weekend in his stead, should you have any urgent questions regarding the subject material," he finished; he doubted a single student heard him over the hum of frantic conversation that had followed Logan's question, and he didn't care. He'd made his point, and Dumbledore could do whatever he pleased in retaliation, but he couldn't very well wipe the minds of all hundred-odd Slytherins. Severus strode to his place at the staff table, with grim satisfaction lodged in his heart and etched into the lines of his face.

Lupin's place was empty; and if Severus' calculated risk this morning paid off in the way he expected, it would remain so. The Headmaster's spot was empty, too, which was highly unusual — but then, so were the capture and escape of a convict on school grounds, and Severus didn't know how late the Minister had stayed at the castle.

Severus choked down his own breakfast, hardly paying attention to what he ate, and sparing even less attention to any attempts at conversation by his peers. His eyes alternated between a particular figure at the Slytherin table, and a particular cluster of  _empty_  seats at the Gryffindor table. When it came to fury, it was difficult to decide who had earned more of it, last night: Potter and his miserable friends were certainly in the running, but —

His gaze slipped back to his daughter; and he could not look at her without seeing twisting, scabby grey hands clutching at her throat, or dripping fangs inches from her face, and he knew:  _she_ had earned the brunt of his fury, undoubtedly and undeniably, for doing the one thing that he found utterly unforgivable: she had prioritized  _his_ safety over hers, and that was against every rule that they lived by.

He saw her push her plate aside, and then rise from the Slytherin table, and he was on his feet again just as quickly; he skirted the staff table, banging his knee as he rose and ignoring it. She moved quickly, and she'd gotten a head start, but he caught up with her in the corridor just outside the Great Hall, and halted her abruptly with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Precisely  _where_ do you think you're going?" he growled; his eyes narrowed. He willed her to play along, because if she did then he could cling a bit longer to the fantasy that this was simply another of her ill-advised youthful transgressions; a forbidden trip to the Owlery, or a plea to swim with the Giant Squid. If she didn't, then he would be forced to succumb to a truth that terrified him more than anything else he'd faced in his entire life thus far.

She narrowed her eyes. "You hardly gave me ten minutes to get ready this morning," she said, and then her tone shifted from sulky to scathing: "I'm going to take a shower _;_ I assume I'm allowed to do  _that_  out of your sight, yes?"

Severus felt himself flush. "Very well," he said, stiffly; he cast about for something, anything he could say, to bolster his illusion, that today was no different from the prior day; that  _she_  was no different, that she hadn't gone and grown up in the space of a single terror-filled evening, and that he would  _always_  be able to protect her, like he had promised.

He couldn't think of anything to say, and so instead he simply watched her walk away, and tried not to see the monster that was still stalking her; the one that he had set on her, thinking he was helping, only to see its claws sink into her skin and its teeth at her throat:  _agency_.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista waited until she knew her father wasn't going to follow her, and then she doubled back, and traced a new route through the castle. She  _did_  need a shower, that much was true; but there was something else that she needed, suddenly, much more.

She had cause to wonder, as she climbed two sets of stairs to the third floor, if she had somehow lost her mind the night before, in place of her soul; but perhaps the fact that she hadn't was just what she needed to confirm. She felt the familiar slither of fear in her gut, but it didn't seem quite as heavy as she recalled. She pushed herself on.

She passed Professor Dumbledore in the corridor, and for a moment, she stopped short, breath catching in her throat; wildly, she thought that her father had sent him to come after her, but then the events of the prior evening, the  _later_  events, trickled into her mind, and she knew that could not be the case.

"Ah, Calista," he said, and it struck her that he seemed not at all surprised to see her, in this third-floor corridor, scarcely an hour before her N.E.W.T. exam, "I do hope that you had a chance to rest, last night, and recover?"

Calista frowned uncertainly. "Well enough," she hedged.

The Headmaster nodded, and offered a slight, unassuming smile.

"You'll find Professor Lupin in his office," he said, matter-of-factly, though Calista hadn't felt him even attempt to breach her mind. "I imagine he'll be relieved to see you looking — ah, 'well enough'."

She blinked, and opened her mouth, but the Headmaster had already continued on his way, towards where she'd come from and away from where she was going.

"You're not going to tell my father I was here, are you?" she called, over her shoulder, without thinking; the Headmaster paused, and looked over his shoulder, and then — he  _winked_ , as if they had just shared a marvelous joke.

"As a matter of fact, Calista, I don't believe I shall."

She waited until he was out of sight, and then she made herself go on, until she reached a particular door, that was ajar at a particular angle. For an instant, it was as if nothing had changed, in the last twelve hours; as if she still had the chance to stay in the castle, following a set of rules that she suddenly found she had outgrown, like an old cloak.

Like the dementors' assaults, though, it was an illusion, and she knew that things had already begun to change, whatever her father might choose to desperately pretend. She pushed the classroom door open the rest of the way and went in, and then she tiptoed warily towards the open office door.

She half-expected to see the strange map, spread across the desk's surface, and the abandoned goblet of potion beside it — but of course, those things were gone, and in their place was a tatty, worn suitcase, wide-open and surrounded by personal artefacts; behind it, a pale, bedraggled, and extremely exhausted youngish man with grey-flecked hair placed objects within it as though each weighed a thousand stone.

He looked up, when she entered, and his brown eyes went wide; his hands stilled, fingers gripping a weathered-looking book.

"Calista," he said quietly, "I didn't expect to see you again."

He shivered, and shook his head quickly. "I — that didn't come out as I intended," he said, rubbing his thumb along the book's spine, "I meant I —"

His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Professor Dumbledore told me that you were unharmed," he said, "I'm relieved to see that it appears to be true."

"You remember, then?" Calista queried softly, from her place in the office doorway; she tried to calm the tremor of fear that wriggled in her gut, and tingled along her bones. She looked at his eyes: brown, not yellow, and it struck her that this was not the first conversation the two of them had had about remembering.

"Yes," he said, hoarsely; she saw his throat tighten up, as if there had been more words, and he'd swallowed them whole. And then, he glanced down at the cover of the book in his hands, and:

"I'm sorry."

"What's it like?" she asked, quickly, before she could think better of her question, or of being here at all.

Remus started, and his eyes lifted again, meeting hers directly. "What?"

"What's it like?" Calista asked again, a bit more boldly, "Not transforming — I know that's horrible, I've… I've read about that; but what's it like  _being_  …?"

She trailed off; Remus barked a short, hollow noise that she supposed was meant to be a laugh.

"A monster?" he finished, bitterly, and she could see the pain in his eyes, striking a chord she knew well, somewhere deep, very close to where the ever-present serpent still slithered among her insides.

"Out of control," she said, "That's what I was going to say."

Remus twisted his face away, avoiding her gaze. "You're too kind, then, to use the proper term for what I am…"

Calista snorted. For some reason, it made her feel a tiny bit braver. "I've been accused of being 'too much' of a lot of things," she said, slightly sharpened by nerves. "'Kind' has never been one of them; but if you want to speak in 'proper' terms, all right, then, what's it like to be an infected lycanthrope?"

He seemed startled by her challenge; he lifted his gaze again, peering closely at her.

"I don't know that I can give you whatever answer it is that you're looking for," he said finally, "And I'd like to ask you a question, instead, if that's all right."

Calista nodded. She braced herself, clenching her jaw against the question she knew must be coming, what she'd essentially asked for.  _What is it like to be the daughter of a murderer?_

"Did you know the Freezing Charm would work?"

It was Calista's turn to start, and to avoid  _his_  gaze. It wasn't the question she had been expecting, not from him.

"No," she said, looking down at the worn stone floor, "I — actually, I didn't really expect it would."

She heard an indrawn breath, and when she looked up, his expression was tortured.

"Why, then?" he asked her, "Why did you use it?"

She decided to tell him the truth, though she wasn't certain why.

"I panicked," she said, "I could only think of one other spell, and… and if I'd cast it, it might have killed you."

"Why didn't you cast it, then?" he murmured darkly, "Perhaps you would have — saved us both."

It struck Calista that his tone was utterly familiar; something in her shifted, and perhaps it was her fear, because she found herself suddenly able to step properly into his office.

"You didn't answer me, when I asked you what lycanthrophy is like," she said, sharp once more; if he suddenly recalled that he was meant to be her professor, she would never get away with her tone, but somehow, she didn't think he would. "But I think I can guess. You know everything that's happening, don't you? You can  _see_  what you're doing, but you're powerless to stop it, and even when you manage — when you make it through the night — without hurting anyone, you don't quite believe it; the dreams always tell you otherwise. That's a bit of what it's like, isn't it?"

Remus inhaled sharply. "Yes," he said, miserably, "More or less."

Calista took a breath herself, and another step into the office, suppressing a shudder that he was certain to take the wrong way. In her mind, it was never far away; the memory of losing control, of the twisting, undulating feeling of Bellatrix, invading her through legilimency, whetting her blade against the fabric of Calista's own mind; she couldn't tell him about that, but she could tell him something else, that might explain why she had chosen the way she had, and why she had come here in the first place.

The words weren't as difficult to find as she'd anticipated; but perhaps that was because these ones, and the sentiment behind them, had been whispering through the back of her mind for a semester's worth of estranged glances and awkwardly quiet Defence classes.

"She used to use the Imperius Curse on me," she told him, as evenly as she could manage, "And maybe I didn't have teeth and claws, but I still — I still felt like a monster."

"You're not," Remus said, quietly, instantly.

She nodded. She knew that, now. And she was fairly certain she knew the truth of whether or not  _he_  was one, but she had to ask him one more question, first.

"What happened with my father, when you were in school together?" she asked, "The night he found out?"

She did not need to be a legilimens to read the pain and the regret that flashed across his features, in the seconds before his expression closed itself off; but she did need the truth, and so she watched him very carefully, when he answered.

"It was a foolish, reckless plan," he said, "Of which I knew nothing — and which is the stuff of a substantial portion of my nightmares; though I daresay I'll have some new ones, soon…"

He swallowed. "So will you, I expect." His fingers gripped the book in his hands as if he could disappear through it, if he tried hard enough. "And I don't expect you to believe me, but if I  _had_  known what my friends had planned, I would have stopped them."

Calista studied him, considering his words. And then, she nodded, letting out a slow breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"I do believe you," she said, "Even though I think it would be a lot easier for me, if I didn't."

"I assure you that you are under no obligation to forgive me," he said, "For my actions last night, or for my actions eighteen years ago. Your father certainly hasn't."

He tried to cover the twist of bitterness that laced his words, but Calista was a particularly keen audience. She picked up on it, and she nodded, resolutely.

"I can't speak for my father," she said, as evenly as she could manage, "But he doesn't speak for me, either. So I can't address your past with him, but I  _can_  speak to what happened last night, and…"

Calista swallowed. "It was — I'm going to borrow a phrase here, from someone who's used the same one quite rightfully against me —  _wildly irresponsible_  to go out on the grounds last night, without taking the Wolfsbane Potion."

Remus nodded, grimly. "I don't deny that."

"But as for the  _rest_  of it — the same person  _also_  told me something else. If someone takes your hand, and uses it to tear a page from a book, then you didn't ruin the book,  _they_ did. Maybe there isn't a person controlling you in your scenario, but you're still being used without your consent, and the way I see it — and I think my, uhm,  _friend_ would agree — it amounts to nearly the same thing."

Remus was quiet for a moment. And then: "You have some very wise friends, and you deserve to find truth in what they've told you, but surely you're bright enough to see that the analogy doesn't apply to me as easily?"

"Why not?"

"I went out when I wasn't safe," he reminded her — or perhaps himself — grimly, "That's unforgivable."

"All right," Calista said quietly, "I suppose I'll grant you that, if it was deliberate. Was it?"

"It doesn't matter."

Calista took a breath. In her mind, the image of the rat surfaced again; she could see the blood seeping from its lifeless form, the eyes unseeing — she could smell the stinging copper scent of blood.

"Yes, it does matter," she said, and she wasn't only speaking to Remus anymore; it was something that she realised she needed to truly believe  _herself_ , once and for all. "It matters more than anything."

Remus' eyes went dark with emotion; he looked hastily away from her, fixing his eyes on the cover of the book.

"I forgot," he said, grimly and quietly. "I forgot what day it was, and I forgot about the potion, but it's no ex—"

"Well, then." Calista cut him off, a bit fiercely; she was still trying to talk some sense into herself, after all, and she knew damn well that she would fight it tooth and nail. "There we have it; a mistake. One that makes you wildly irresponsible, for certain — but not a monster."

She saw his eyes widen, and she could see it plain in his face that he wanted to believe her; and then, his expression shut down once more, and he busied himself by placing the book in his hands carefully into the suitcase.

"You are mistaken, Calista," he said gruffly, "And once again, you're too kind to tell the truth."

Calista frowned. "There's that word again," she mused, "And I really don't think it fits me — I'm not nice to people who haven't been nice to me; I don't go out of my way to do things for other people who haven't made a habit of doing the same for me —"

"Ah, but you're here now," Remus interrupted, with a grim, wry sort of smile.

"Not out of kindness; and if you want proof of that, I haven't gone to see Potter or his friends in the hospital wing, and I'm not going to. I'm  _not_  kind. Being kind is selfless, and I've spent too much time in my own head to ever manage that properly, but I have some incredible friends — like Percy — who have taught me how to be  _fair_  instead, and that's just what I'm doing now."

Remus' brow shot up. "Are you here to cast that other spell, after all, then, and potentially kill me? That's the only way I can see your visit here being in the interest of fairness."

Calista narrowed her eyes. " _No_ ," she snarled, "And that's not a particularly funny joke — if you actually knew what happened with the spell before —"

"I'm sorry," Remus said, quickly contrite, "I didn't mean it at your expense; I meant it at mine."

"It's still not funny."

Remus closed his case, despite the fact that at least half of his office remained to be packed up; and then he opened it again, nervously, and fiddled with the clasps. He seemed to be looking for something to do with his hands.

"You're leaving the school." Calista observed. Remus nodded, and his expression melted into one of mingled sadness and relief.

"I am."

"When?"

"This afternoon, at the latest," Remus said, "I intend to be gone before word of my condition gets out and the owls from parents start pouring in. I've already given my resignation to Professor Dumbledore, just before you came."

"Word's already gotten out," Calista told him, a bit grimly. "My father's seen to that this morning."

"All the more reason I should leave, as quickly and as quietly as possible."

She nodded, and then: "I  _am_  being fair, you know. I'm here because there were questions I needed to know the answers to, but  _also_  because I figured no one else would be here — just like you were for me, when I was small, and scared, and alone."

Remus blinked, and his expression softened. "You don't owe me for that, Calista."

"I don't?" She raised a brow. "If you think that, then I haven't managed to properly explain yet. I may not  _be_ kind, but I do understand kindness, now, and that's part of what keeps  _me_  from becoming a monster — and if you still think you are one, then you should know that the kindness you showed me, all those years ago, was the first I remember, and it's the earliest positive memory I have."

Remus looked taken aback; he even  _took_  a step back, and then, he brought his hand to his face, briefly, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

"Thank you," he said, hoarsely, and she could tell that she'd managed to penetrate his bubble of self-hatred, at least for a moment, "Thank you for telling me that; it means more than you know."

He lowered his hand, and she was startled by two realisations - the first was that his fingers were trembling with weariness, and the second was that it  _wasn't_  weariness that had him rubbing at his eyes, after all; they were shiny with unshed tears. If he had been her father,or Gerald, or even one of her friends, she would touched his shoulder, or even given him a hug — but he wasn't; she didn't really know  _what_  he was, come to think of it; not quite a friend, but no longer a professor.

She shifted nervously, uncertain what she was supposed to do; it was unfamiliar territory. In a way, it was as if Professor Vector had suddenly started tearing up over her differential calculations.

Thinking of homework suddenly reminded her of another reason she had come, and it gave her something to do, besides. She took a breath, and she slipped her hand into her pocket.

"There's something else I wanted to tell you," she said, and Remus nodded. She looked away for a few seconds, giving him time to collect himself. He cleared his throat, and when she looked back at him, his expression was more or less what she was used to; mild, private, and tired — and if it was slightly softer than usual, that, too, was familiar enough to feel safe.

"I finished my essay," she said; curiosity overtook his features and that, too, was something she could place into a comfortable context. She imagined for a moment that this really  _was_  a traditional assignment, or even an exam.

She withdrew her wand, and stepped back, out into the classroom. While her old cat Patronus would have fit comfortably in the small office, she couldn't imagine containing a thestral in the same space; and maybe that said more than anything. She took another breath, and reached into her memory, and this time time it took her only seconds to recall the flood of power, of emotion, that had quite literally saved her soul the previous evening.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she said, and a blinding flash of silver light filled the empty classroom, quickly materialising into the strong, sinewy form that had both saved and guided her, hours and a lifetime ago.

She stretched her hand out, again, by instinct, and again the creature came to her, touching its skeletal nose to her fingers, well within sight of the doorway; but it didn't matter, because Remus had come forward, to see it.

When she waved her wand again, the thestral faded, and she allowed herself to look properly at her former professor, as if waiting for a grade; to her surprise, his lined face was lit now, by a small, warm smile.

"I think," Remus said, "That's the best essay I've read all year."

Calista quirked a brow. "I've earned an 'O', then?"

Remus' mouth twitched, into something far closer to a smirk than she expected from him. She was reminded, again, that she didn't really  _know_  him.

"Yes," he said, "You've earned an 'O'."

Calista smiled. "Good," she said, and then: "I really do have to go, now; not only because of my exam, but also because I've denied my father the privilege of shouting at me about last night for nearly an hour now, and I expect he's growing impatient."

She heard Remus chuckle behind her as she turned to go, and it occurred to her that perhaps Gerald was right, after all, about one more thing; perhaps she  _was_  just as good with antidotes as he was. Perhaps Remus hadn't been  _so_ far off the mark, either, when he'd called her kind. That thought made her turn back, steps from the open classroom door.

"I hope it's all right to ask," Calista said, "But I've been worrying — do you know what happened to that dog that helped me escape?"

Remus started. "Which —" he cut himself off abruptly, and then: "Last night, you mean?"

She nodded slowly, puzzled by his reaction. Which other dog, or which other time, could she possibly mean?

"Yes, last night. There was a big, black dog — it was chasing after you, and and it…" she frowned, briefly. She couldn't tell him that the dog had seemed eerily sentient, that it had communicated with her — he'd think she was mad.

"I lost sight of it, after it chased you into the forest, and I was just wondering if you knew whether it was all right."

A truly odd expression flickered across Remus' face; she was sorely tempted to probe with legilimency, but didn't dare, partly in the face of their tentative peace, and partly in case he  _was_  enough of an Occlumens to detect her intrusion.

"Yes," he said, after a moment, "The dog is all right. He got away."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Although Charms was easily Calista's best subject, and arguably her favourite one, sitting the exam on less than adequate sleep after the wild events of the prior night was not at all ideal. She pushed herself through the written portion of the exam, scribbling essays on runic Charm origins and the finer points of the Fidelius Charm for three hours straight, and by the time they let the students out for a forty-five minute lunch break prior to the practical portion of the exam, Calista was well and truly weary.

She went to her father's quarters, instead of the Great Hall for lunch; there would be hardly anyone at the long house tables anyway, since all but the N.E.W.T. students had a Hogsmeade visit that day, and the weather — what Calista glimpsed of it through the thick castle windows — was quite fine.

She summoned up a sandwich from the kitchens, and was debating whether she had time to take a quick nap — probably not, but the thought was sorely tempting — when her father stepped into the kitchen doorway, filling it.

"I've decided," he said quietly, "That you are not allowed to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow, with your classmates."

Calista's head whipped up, as she nearly choked on a bite of her sandwich.

" _Why_?" she asked, narrowing her eyes; she knew Gerald was planning on meeting her, and she'd been looking forward to it before, but after last night, she  _needed_  to see him.

"Do I really need to explain?" he asked, quite coldly. Calista's nose twisted up in a scowl, and she set the rest of her sandwich down.

"Yes, please do," she replied, acidly. "Since there probably isn't even  _time_  to let Gerald know not to come."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before," Severus said, darkly.

"Before what, exactly?" Calista challenged, "Before  _you_  went running off after a fully transformed werewolf, into what appeared  _very obviously_  to be a trap set by people that you've warned me have tried to kill you before?"

Severus' nose twisted up too, scowl matching hers almost precisely. " _No_ ," he said, "Before  _you_  went running off after a fully transformed werewolf into what appeared  _very obviously_ , as you say, to be a trap — not to mention the dementors —"

"What was I supposed to do, then? Just let you get yourself killed? 'Sorry, Dad, I liked having you around and all, but it's after my curfew so good-bye' — is that what I was supposed to do?"

"I had the situation under control," he growled, "And you know damn well that you should have gone for help, if you were concerned."

"I  _tried_ ," she said, voice rising; she could feel herself start to tremble, with a volatile combination of nerves, anger, and exhaustion. "You know I tried — but there  _wasn't_  anyone except the Headmaster, and you'd just  _told_  me not to trust him —"

"You didn't try hard enough," he said, almost petulantly, "And you could have gone to the Headmaster, in this particular instance —"

"Well, I couldn't exactly reach you for you to tell me so," she reminded him, quite tartly, "Seeing as it was during the part where you were evidently knocked unconscious while you had everything so well — what did you say —  _under control_."

"Enough," he spat, eyes glittering, "You do not lecture me, Calista; I am the adult here —"

"So am I."

He flinched briefly, and then he stepped forward, baring his teeth assertively.

"I will not discuss this anymore," he said, "You are not going to Hogsmeade; you'll be lucky if I let you leave the house at all this summer, after your  _unforgivably reckless_  behaviour."

" _Unforgivably reckless?_ How would you describe  _your_  behavior, then?"

His eyes narrowed once more. "I said,  _enough._  You will not question me —"

Calista's brow shot up. She knew arguing now was a bad idea, knew that he wasn't capable of seeing reason now, for whatever reason, any more than he had been last night, but she was tired and strained and she couldn't quite help herself. "Since  _when_?" And then:

"Why would you do this to me, anyway? You know I have my Charms N.E.W.T. today — the most important exam of my  _life_ , now, since I met those men from Experimental Charms — and you know what I went through last night, and you know I didn't sleep enough — why are you trying to upset me  _now_?"

"Calista —"

"Nevermind," she said, sweeping a glance at the clock on the wall, and hardening her face and her voice, so she wouldn't start crying  _now_ , of all times; gods, this would have been so much easier if she had gotten enough sleep — and wasn't  _that_  the story of her life?

"I have to go finish my exam now," she said, clenching her fists and skirting around him. She could hear him turning, and taking a step after her, but she kept going.

"We'll discuss this later," he said, and though it was far too little, far too late, he had somewhat modulated his tone, "After your exam."

Calista yanked open the door that led out of his quarters. "Fine," she said, and then, over her shoulder: "Just so you know — if I fail this exam, I'm blaming you, and I'll never forgive you."

If he said anything in reply, it was thoroughly disguised by her slamming of the door, and the subsequent ringing in her ears.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Calista took up a spot near the rear corner of the Great Hall, hoping she could avoid being one of the first students tested, that way. She needed a few moments, to properly clear her mind, and to draw from whatever dregs of energy remained. Ordinarily, she could always find just a bit more when she really needed it, but ordinarily she didn't face dementors, a werewolf,  _and_  her father's temper all within the same twenty-four hour period.

The House tables had been placed up against the walls; she knew the Great Hall was still open at mealtimes, and lunch had just ended, so whoever had been in charge of clearing the hall must have made quick work of it, indeed. She tried to wonder whether the examiners would be the same ones she' had for the N.E.W.T. exams — some from her previous exams had been, and some had not — but she found her mind circling back around, instead, to the things she  _didn't_  want to think about.

She had to write Gerald, and see if she  _could_ reach him in time, or else he'd be worried when she didn't turn up. She wondered, then, whether he would have heard word of Sirius Black's capture and subsequent escape — she hadn't even checked the paper — and then she realised that even if it  _wasn't_ in the paper, his brother surely would have written him about news as big as  _that_ , so he probably did know; that would make him worry even more, if she didn't show up to meet him tomorrow.

Not showing up to meet him…  _that_  thought made her mind return to the argument she'd just had with her father, and that was precisely where she didn't want her mind to go, just then. She could feel the pulse of anger at her skin, it was true, but she felt so many other things; terror, not only at what she had ensured the night before, but also of what she'd tried to tell him — what very nearly could have happened to  _him._

Why couldn't he see that she worried after him every bit as much as he worried after her? She understood why he had raced off into the forest; because he had thought someone was in danger, and in need of his rescue — but in  _his_  case, it wasn't even anyone he cared particularly about, so why couldn't he understand why she had made the very  _same_  choice that he had, only with stakes a thousand times higher, because it was  _him_  she had felt she had to rescue?

Her stomach knotted itself up and she felt her limbs tremble — and god damn it, she was getting lightheaded, and she was  _still_  hungry because she hadn't finished her sandwich, and she was filled, suddenly, with the dread of certainty that she  _was_  going to fail her exam after all, that she might pass out before it even started — and there were  _no_  make ups, for Ministry-sponsored exams, everyone knew that.

Just when she was beginning to regret her decision to stand at the back of the hall — perhaps it was better, after all, that she go first, before she had the opportunity to faint or to throw up on her examiner, which suddenly  _also_ seemed distinctly possible — the great double doors at the front of the hall sung open, and the trio of Ministry examiners came in —

And she felt a funny little jolt of recognition in her chest as she realised that one of them had  _horns_ ; it was Mr. Wimple, from the Experimental Charms Committee.

He surveyed the hall with a faint smile, as the lead examiner called for silence; the nervous murmurs of the gathered students faded abruptly. The lead examiner — the same one that had administered Calista's Charms O.W.L. two years ago — explained that each student would be asked by one of the examiners to demonstrate a full range of charms from a list that would gradually increase in difficulty, and would then be given an opportunity to demonstrate any additional Charms that they wanted to be marked on.

"The examiners will note whether or not your charms are successful, of course, but they will also be taking notes on the fluidity of your attempt, strength of charm, and stylistic elements. These notes will be reviewed when your final marks are being considered, so we encourage you to really show us the absolute best charm work you can do; no finishing touch is extraneous, today."

Calista felt her heart sink and her gut knotted further. Performing the charms would be doable — hopefully, if she didn't get sick or pass out first — but she certainly didn't feel as though she were in top form, and it was difficult to imagine that her demonstrations would be.

The examiners split up to cover different parts of the room, and it quickly became evident to Calista that not only had Mr. Wimple spotted her, but he appeared to be heading straight for her.

"Hello again, Miss Snape," he said, in quite a friendlier manner than she was accustomed to from her examiners so far.

"Hello, Mr. Wimple," she managed, trying her best to hide her nerves and to appear confident, "I didn't realise you were a N.E.W.T. examiner."

"Ah, well, they almost always ask someone from the Committee to help," he explained, "And usually I'm pretty good at getting out of it, but  _this_  time, I thought it might be a nice opportunity to check in on you again."

Calista felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. "Oh."

"And," Mr. Wimple said, and suddenly he grinned, and offered a conspiratorial wink. "There's a budget meeting today."

Calista attempted a weak chuckle, but came up short. "I see."

"Things around  _here_  are much more exciting than budget meetings, according to the  _Daily Prophet_ ," Mr. Wimple observed, clutching the examiner's clipboard he held to his chest — evidently, he was in no hurry to begin the examination, even though Calista could hear murmured spells and see flashes of light from other students already.

"Oh," Calista felt her heart sink a bit lower. "That — er, it's hit the papers already, then?" Gerald would most  _definitely_  be worried if she didn't show up when she was meant to, then. She wished she'd had time to write him earlier, or better yet, that her father would stop being so bloody unreasonable.

Mr. Wimple's brows shot up. "The infamous Sirius Black ran loose on the Hogwarts grounds, right under the dementors' noses, attacked three students — including Harry Potter,  _the_ Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake — and a teacher, and then escaped from a locked, non-Apparable room while the Minister of Magic himself was in the castle, and you thought it might  _not_  make the papers? Come on, Miss Snape, I took you for a bit cleverer than  _that_."

Calista felt herself flush. "I just meant —" she started, not quite suppressing a scowl, and then Mr. Wimple interrupted.

"Ah, wait," he said, and tapped himself on the forehead with the clipboard, making a spectacular clattering noise against one of his horns. "I forgot, the paper said the Potions Master — the teacher that was attacked was your father wasn't it? I'm sorry, you must be pretty distraught still — understandable, understandable..."

"It wasn't  _just_ what the papers said," she told him, a bit defensively, "It was — there were — dementor attacks, and…"

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Wimple brightened slightly, as if the topic was fascinating gossip to him, "I did read something about that — I reckon that's why they've all been shipped back off to Azkaban, eh? — and I heard the wildest rumour, too, on my way in. Something about a  _werewolf_ , if you can believe it."

"I  _can_  believe it," she said, grimly, "That's what I was trying to say —  _I_ was attacked by dementors, and there  _was_ …" she paused; for a second, she felt an absurd flash of guilt, as if perhaps she was still forbidden from revealing Remus' true condition — but it wasn't really a secret anymore, and besides, she didn't need to name him specifically. "I saw the werewolf."

" _Really?_ " Mr. Wimple's eyes widened, and he clutched the clipboard, hunching over it to lean closer to her. He lowered his voice, slightly. "I don't suppose you managed to take notes on the fur markings, or whether its claws were —" she could feel her own eyebrows lifting in questioning disbelief, and Mr. Wimple caught himself. "Ah, no, no, of course you wouldn't, it would be too dangerous — and say,  _you're_  still a student too, so what were you doing out of the castle at night, anyway? I don't suppose you're one of Harry Potter's friends, are you?"

Calista blinked. " _No_. I went out because I thought my father might be in danger for going  _after_ Potter and his friends."

"Oh." Mr. Wimple frowned, looking slightly disappointed. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense, too. I was just — I've always wanted to meet him, you know. Harry Potter. I mean, he survived — You-Know-Who — and  _no one's_ ever survived; I'm very interested in anomalies. He must have had some sort of powerful protective charm, and I'm very curious. Thought perhaps you could introduce me, if you  _were_  his friend..."

"Well, I'm not," Calista snapped, far more impatiently and frankly in a far more  _familiar_  manner than she'd have dared if she hadn't already been bone-tired and, yes, distraught. "And even if I were — he was a  _baby_ , remember? He couldn't possibly know what sorts of charms were on him —"

"Well, obviously not," Mr. Wimple said, and he drew himself up rigidly; she felt a delayed pang of guilt, and also one of apprehension, for managing to offend her N.E.W.T. examiner before the test even began, "I was hoping to get permission to run diagnostics on him, and check for any leftover traces of enchantment. Got to be something tied to the blood, I'm thinking, that's the only way it could have worked… powerful thing, blood magic,  _impressively_  powerful."

The familiar weight of dread settled in Calista's stomach; the edges of her vision went dark, and she started to see a flash of silver…

_Red lines on pale skin —_

_No._  She knew the truth. Pale lines,  _not very clear_ , he had said, and she was able to recall that the curse was broken; the blood magic that had bound her once didn't, anymore. She found, to her surprise, that she was able to reach for the truth of that far more easily than she had before last night. Her vision cleared, and the dread began to dissolve.

"Anyway," Mr. Wimple was saying, in a normal tone, but she realised belatedly that he was peering at her now, as if he'd suddenly become curious about  _her_  instead of about Potter — but he couldn't possibly know, could he? "I suppose we ought to get this paperwork out of the way, eh?"

She glanced to her left, where the hall was gradually emptying out, as the other examiners made their rounds, and felt her stomach flutter again. He was right, it was time to take the exam;  _paperwork._  Did that mean that he already knew she might not perform at her usual level, and he was just waiting for her to prove it before he failed her…?

"I say, Miss Snape," he said, furrowing his brow a bit, "Are you all right? You've got a bit of a look like — well, like you've been running charms experiments all night, and you're just waiting for someone to reprimand you for blowing up the lab  _again_  —" he paused, and bit his lip. "All right, perhaps I'm projecting a bit, but you know what I mean."

"I, erm…didn't get much sleep."

Mr. Wimple clattered himself on the forehead with the clipboard again, startling her.

"Right, right," he said, "You were  _out_  there, with the dementors, and the werewolf…"

He paused, lowering the clipboard. He leaned over it again, even more eagerly than he had the first time. "All right, you didn't take notes on the wolf — but the dementors, you must have used a Patronus Charm, when you were attacked, right? How many were there?"

Calista took a steadying breath. "A dozen, I think," she said; Mr. Wimple nodded eagerly, evidently impressed.

"Oh, that's very good," he said; Calista blinked. It seemed like quite an odd thing to say, but he went on nodding, horns bobbing. "Twelve at once — are  _all_  your charms like your Freezing Charm, then, that absurdly strong one?"

"No," Calista said, and instantly wondered if it would have been more beneficial to lie. "I mean — I'm  _good_  at most Charms, of course, but that's the only one that seems — ah,  _absurdly_  strong."

"Mm. So far," Mr. Wimple said, but he did retreat a bit, slightly disappointed.

"But I did use my Freezing Charm, last night," she told him, "On… on the wolf."

Out of all possible reactions, Mr. Wimple then had the very last one she would have expected; he  _grinned_ , positively lighting up.

"You  _did_?" he asked, delighted, "On a fully transformed  _werewolf_? And it  _worked_?"

She nodded. "Not for very long; a few seconds, each time — enough to get away."

She didn't mention the dog; she wasn't sure why, but she'd left it out of the version of events she'd shown to her father, too.

"You conducted multiple rounds of experimentation?" Mr. Wimple was beaming now, "Oh, that's brilliant — ah, yes, we're going to get on splendidly at the lab, Miss Snape, I can tell. Did you notice any abnormalities, in the physiological effects on the werewolf as opposed to —"

They were interrupted, by the sudden appearance of the lead examiner, who cleared her throat with evident impatience.

"Mr. Wimple," she sniffed, "You're not still working on your  _first_  examination, are you?"

"Sorry, Madam Horton," Mr. Wimple said, in a one that Calista would have found suspiciously blithe, had it been directed at her, "I'm doing my best, you know — I don't do these exams often."

Madam Horton looked very dearly like she wanted to roll her eyes. "I know."

"They usually send Ignus Ivanforth," Mr. Wimple went on, "He likes to help, see, very concerned about the future of magical education — but I'm afraid the poor sod got stuck in a budget meeting today."

Madam Horton pressed her mouth into a thin line. "How unfortunate," she commented, stiffly.

Mr. Wimple nodded, sympathetically. "Isn't it, though?" he spared another glance at Calista, who realised he was only a quirk of the mouth away from an outright smirk, and instantly  _she_  stopped worrying about having been too rude to him, as her examiner; clearly, it didn't bother him. "Anyway, we're almost done here, I just have a few more notes to make, and I'll be on to the next bright young mind."

Madam Horton sighed. "Very well, Mr. Wimple. Do try to be a bit quicker with the next examination, hm? We've only got the hall until four o'clock."

"I'll do my best," Mr. Wimple promised; his smile shifted towards sheepish, as she retreated, to begin  _her_  next examination.

"Why did you tell her we were almost done?" Calista asked nervously;  _was_  he planning on failing her without even testing her, after all that? But he'd said that they'd work well together, so he couldn't possibly mean to fail her, could he?

"We are," Mr. Wimple said, and he looked down at the clipboard. He withdrew a quill from his pocket, and tapped it against the page, several times in succession, as if working his way down a list. "Levitation Charm, Summoning Charm, Silencing Charm… yes, I think we can safely check you off for all of those."

"But I haven't performed  _any_  ch—" Calista started, but Mr. Wimple cleared his throat loudly, interrupting her.

"Sure you did," he said, and then, much quieter: "So what if you didn't do them  _today_? I saw you perform them all wandlessly less than two months ago; unless you've suddenly  _lost_  the ability to perform the same charms in the same manner, then why waste both of our time having you go through them all again?"

Calista blinked; for some reason, she felt a flash of guilt, an uneasy, dark cloud in her gut reminding her that she  _had_  once lost the ability to perform a particular charm.

"I'm fairly certain that's not the protocol," she said, and then wondered why in Merlin's name she was arguing with him; after all, it sounded as if he was trying to  _help_  her, though she couldn't imagine why; something else occurred to her, then: "And isn't it also a poor sample, if you've only seen me perform each charm once? What if I cheated? What if I — had my father working the charms for me secretly, or… or had another wand hidden in my pocket…?"

"Hm." Mr. Wimple raised his eyebrows, considering her thoughtfully. "Did you?"

"No, but still..."

"I didn't think so; but I suppose you're right, I'd better make certain. Go on, use one of them on the clipboa — ah, no, wait, they bewitch them against cheating, you're not allowed to touch it — all right then, use one on  _me_."

"I'm fairly certain  _that's_  not protocol, either…"

Mr. Wimple blinked. "Protocol? As I understand it, Miss Snape,  _protocol_  would have you working as a file clerk, and what good would that do anyone?" He scribbled a few notes on the clipboard.

"Put your wand in your pocket," he said, "It won't do you any good there, anyway, which is how I knew you weren't cheating last time, by the way. Cast one of your wandless charms on me — the silencing charm, how about that one?"

Calista nodded uncertainly, and slipped her wand dutifully into her pocket, lifting her right hand.

 _Confuto_ , she mouthed, tracing the runic pattern; Mr. Wimple opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He continued trying to speak for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, and then finally, his voice kicked in mid-sentence.

"- intriguing, utterly indiscernible from the original spell from the subject's perspective — ah, there we go. I'm curious, can you try it with your other hand?"

"I haven't before," she warned, "But I suppose I can…"

She lifted her left hand, this time;it felt unnatural, tracing the rune that way, as it might if she tried to cast with her left hand.

 _Confuto_ , she mouthed, and Mr. Wimple kept talking, musing about the potential experiments they could conduct, in a proper setting with proper controls. He didn't seem to find the Great Hall during her N.E.W.T. exam the proper setting; but then, she wasn't in proper condition today, either, and she had a feeling he realised it.

"Let me try again," she murmured, and she traced the pattern again — she concentrated, but something about it still felt unnatural — she had a feeling she was getting the rune pattern slightly wrong. Mr. Wimple was still making notes on his clipboard, and describing potential experiments.

"Many wizards can't cast with their off hand," he was saying, as she traced the pattern again, carefully and far more slowly.  _Confuto_. "So it's only nat—"

She looked up at him; his mouth was still moving, and then it stopped, and he grinned. She lowered her hand, and in a few seconds — fewer than before, she thought — his voice evidently returned.

"Oh,  _excellent_ ," he said, "That's promising; how did it feel, casting with your other hand?"

"Strange," she admitted, "Like trying to write with the wrong hand — I think that's what went wrong at first, I think I made a mistake in drawing the rune."

"Ah, a very interesting implication," he murmured, though he didn't clarify exactly what implication he meant. He scribbled some more notes on the clipboard, ignoring a pointed throat-clearing from Madam Horton. After a moment, he quirked a brow and smirked up at her. "You don't look dead, or particularly like you've been turned into a werewolf, so I guess I can give you a pass on your Freezing Charm, too."

"Why are you helping me?" she asked, despite the fact that it was almost certainly in her better interest not to. "Aren't you supposed to be impartial?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Wimple agreed, "And so is the Ministry — but it doesn't always happen that way, does it?"

Calista frowned, recalling Umbridge's horrible, syrupy voice, the casual way that she'd essentially crushed Calista's future, or tried to; she recalled the words of the letter, barring her from touching a Time Turner.

"No," she muttered, a bit darkly, "I guess it doesn't."

"There you have it," Mr. Wimple said, a bit matter-of-factly, as he made some more notes on the clipboard, "Frankly, I don't believe impartiality is possible in any situation where there are humans involved; and anyway, I'm not marking you — I was instructed to write down what I've seen you do, and that's what I'm doing."

Calista blinked. "Fair enough."

"Now," he said after he made a few more notes, "There is  _one_  more spell I'd like you to demonstrate, if you will."

She nodded. "Of course."

Mr. Wimple leaned forward, clutching the clipboard again.

"Let's see that Patronus, eh?" he said eagerly, "The one that fought off a dozen dementors?"

Calista felt her heart skip; she'd performed it that very morning, for Professor Lupin, that was true — but what it that had been a fluke? It was difficult, after so many miserable, heart-wrenching failures, to feel confident that it would manifest when she needed it; but then, she simply  _pictured_ it, and she felt her stomach settle.

She reached her hand out, briefly, as if touching the imaginary creature's nose; and if Mr. Wimple thought it was odd, he didn't say so. Then Calista slipped her wand into her pocket, and she reached into herself, and this time it was even easier to find the light inside.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " she said, and she  _felt_  it, immediately; she didn't even need to look to know she had succeeded, but she did, all the same; she reached her hand out and touched the thestral's nose, while it spread massive, leathery wings that would have knocked over both Mr. Wimple and the student beside Calista, if it had possessed a solid form.

She heard a few students gasp; when she looked up, the head examiner, Madam Horton, was peering over with great interest, and pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

"Good heavens," she heard Madam Horton say, "That's a spectacular Patronus — make note of its brightness, Mr. Wimple; and its form. How unusual."

Mr. Wimple bobbed his horns obediently, and scribbled some notes.

"A rare form, indeed," Mr. Wimple murmured, and then he offered Calista an encouraging sort of grin. "I'll see you this summer, I expect. Good luck on the rest of your exams, Miss Snape."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

She wasn't really ready to talk to her father, when she returned to his quarters after her exam, but she was still hungry, and it felt odd to return to the Great Hall immediately following her examination there; besides, even though she was terribly cross with him, she was bursting to tell  _someone_  how well her exam had gone, despite the way she'd walked into the room feeling.

He didn't disappoint her, in that regard; she'd barely crossed the threshold into his office, when he'd risen from his desk, back straight and tense, eyes boring into her.

"How did it go?" he asked, quietly.

"I have half a mind to tell you I failed because of you," she said, "But it went well,  _despite_  you."

He snarled, and she went on, nearly uncaring if she irritated him — she was irritated, too. She explained about Mr. Wimple, and the few spells he'd asked her to demonstrate.

"I get the feeling," she said, at the end, because it was something she'd thought about on the way here, "That Mr. Wimple really wanted to help me; I think he wants me to work with the Committee."

"I don't doubt that he does."

She nodded, and there were several beats of silence between them; Calista opened her mouth to ask if he'd stopped being unreasonable yet, and he cut her off before she could get the words out.

"Mr. Boot called for you on the fire; he said he expected you'd be sitting an exam, but he wanted to make certain that neither you nor I were hurt, after what was printed in the papers."

It didn't evade Calista's notice that he'd gone back to calling him 'Mr. Boot' instead of Gerald, even though he'd had nothing to do with the reason they were arguing now. She pushed on, hopefully, anyway.

"Can I see him tomorrow, then? In Hogsmeade?"

Severus' expression darkened. "I thought I made myself quite clear, Calista; you are not leaving the castle. As much as I can enforce it, you are not leaving my sight."

"For how long?"

"The foreseeable future, at least."

Calista felt her lip curl; her exhaustion, and the emotional turmoil she'd gone through in the last twenty-four hours certainly weren't helping, and she felt the familiar spark of anger light up in her chest.

"That's not fair —"

Severus' own lip curled in response. "Has that  _ever_  worked for you?"

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

Severus came around the desk suddenly, practically spitting acid; it was as if their earlier argument, and all of the events in between then and now, had never happened; it was as if he'd just come across her, calling out in the middle of the night, with dementors all around and a werewolf on the loose — and realising that he was seeing it that way made  _her_  see it that way, too; she recalled the pallor of his skin, the sticky mat of half-dried blood at his temple, the minutes and  _hours_  that it felt like she'd called out to him, and he hadn't replied.

"Didn't do anything wrong _?_ " he echoed, incredulously, and she squared her shoulders defiantly, though truth be told, she was a little bit afraid of him, for the second time in as many days, but also for the first time in a long time.

"No," she insisted, "I didn't."

"You left the castle without permission; you were out beyond curfew; you were — you were —"

He seemed to have momentarily run out of rules that she'd broken, and he slammed his palm down on the corner of his desk in frustration, as if that would magically produce more of them.

"Dad,  _listen_  —" she started, but he cut her off, a second time.

"This cannot happen again, Calista," he said, "This can  _never_  happen again."

Calista took a half-step back; she felt her heart start to pound again, but this time, neither the pit of dread nor the invisible snakes made an appearance; this time, she had to find the right words on her own. They weren't about to come crawling out of her, or to sink, burning, down into her gut; it was one of many things that had changed, last night.

She realised she felt lighter than she had in a long time; and she realised that she also felt a little unbalanced, as if she'd cut off all her hair after wearing it long for many years, or as if — well, as if she'd finally cast off a pit of vipers that had been living somewhere inside her for the better part of a year. It was the first time it had ever occurred to her that loss didn't always have to be a bad thing; and then she thought of her thestral, and she thought that perhaps that realisation shouldn't have quite come as a surprise.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," she finally managed, willing her voice to come out steady even though she felt anything but, "You told me you'd be right back, and then you weren't."

"This isn't about  _me_  —" he started, and then  _she_  was the one cutting him off:

"You said you were coming back, and you said you would come whenever I called you; but I called, and called, and  _you didn't come_ , and I thought — I thought you were dead, even though I was afraid to even imagine the words, in case it made them true — " she felt a sob choking her throat. "So — so, yes, I agree," she finished, aggrieved. "This can  _never_ happen again."

"I can take care of myself," he insisted, and she knew him well enough to see the cloak he drew over his eyes, to interpret the sudden trembling of his fingers, as they gripped the corner of his desk, knuckles going white. "And I can take care of you, as long as you follow the rules I set —"

"But I won't," she interjected, "Not if it's like it was last night; I  _won't_ , I'd do the same thing a hundred times over, and there's not a  _punishment_  you can set me that would change my mind."

"Oh, I think we'll see about that," he hissed, dangerously, but the taut whiteness wasn't just in his knuckles,anymore; it had washed over him, and tightened his skin and revealed lines and shadows in his face that she hadn't realised he'd gotten old enough to possess, and for some reason  _that_ only served to strengthen her resolve.

"What exactly do you think you can do, to change my mind?" she posed. "How many times do you think it would take me copying lines to decide to let you — to let you —" she couldn't say it again; she couldn't. "To let you get hurt?" she finished, instead.

"It doesn't matter," Severus said, hoarsely. "It doesn't matter what happens to  _me_."

"What?" Calista stepped towards him, now. "Of  _course_ it matters; don't you understand? That's  _why_  I went out last night — because I didn't know if you were — and I love you, and I  _need_ you, and I couldn't handle it if — "

 _Damn it._  She felt the familiar burn in her eyes, the tell-tale tightness in her throat.

"I should make  _you_ write lines," she snarled, in an attempt to ward off tears, "'I will not… I will not terrify my daughter…'"

Severus made a curious noise in his throat, and when she chanced another look at him, she was startled to find that he looked just as close to tears as she felt; and perhaps she  _had_  learned kindness after all, from Gerald or from her friends, or even from  _him_ , because she didn't hesitate to cross the remaining distance between them, and to wrap her arms around him, pulling him close.

"I know you were afraid of what could've happened," she murmured, "So was I; so  _am_  I… but it's… Dad, you've got to realise it goes both ways, now. I can't let anything happen to  _you,_  either."

Truthfully, she'd half-expected her father to pull away, but he didn't; he clung to her, instead, and she felt his fingers tremble as they latched onto her shoulders.

"I've been seeing you die," he whispered hoarsely, "Since last night, every time I close my eyes. Cursed by Black — torn apart by the wolf — and the dementors, the worst of all… and it's my fault,  _always_  my fault."

Calista felt her breath, her heart, catch in her throat. She knew better than anyone what it was like to have horrors living in the darkness of every blink; but there were only two things she knew of that could drive nightmares away.

Becoming powerful enough to keep her mother out of her mind had curbed some of them. Learning to resist the Imperius Curse had diminished a few more; but power wasn't always the answer. There were still other horrors, other nightmares, that she knew she'd never be rid of; there would still be nights, even now, even in ten years or twenty, that she dreamed of her mother coming after her again, or of her friends, her father, being hurt.

She couldn't take away his visions of blood and horror any more than she could eliminate her own, and so she settled for the only other alternative she knew, she kept her hold on him, and she reminded him that whatever he was seeing wasn't real — or, at least, it wasn't  _now_.

"I'm okay," she reminded him; it wasn't the first time she had done so, but it felt, suddenly, like the most important time. "We're both okay."

He shuddered, and he started to pull away; but she knew this pattern well, even if she knew it from the other side. She renewed her grip on him, and she repeated her mantra, again and again, until she was certain he knew the truth of it.

"We're safe."

And then, at last, when she could see reason in his eyes once more, when his grip on her shoulders relaxed and his hands were steady, she said one more thing:

"Let's make a bargain," she murmured, "I promise to stay alive as long as you do."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

In the morning, Severus relented; he told her over breakfast that she could go into Hogsmeade if she wished. Some of her friends would be going, though she suspected Percy, at least, would stay inside and work on revisions.

Severus had already told Gerald, when he'd called on the fire yesterday, that she would not be going to Hogsmeade; and even though Gerald had left word that Calista could leave a message on his cousin Chadwick's fire if anything changed, she realised that she wasn't quite ready to hash over the events of  _that night_  again, and he would undoubtedly ask her to.

Besides, there was somewhere else she needed to be, that Saturday; someone whose company and conversation she had perhaps neglected, of late.

"Thanks, Dad," Calista said, when he told her of his reversed decision, "But I think I'll stay here, after all, today."

He had blinked, and then nodded. "You'll want to work on your revisions, I expect."

"Probably later," she'ad agreed, "But I think I'd  _also_ like to spend some time with you. Maybe we could work on a potion — though I guess we don't need the wolfsbane anymore."

"No," he'd agreed, "I suppose we don't."

"We could… we could just talk; I think maybe we haven't done enough of that, lately."

Severus had fixed her with a long, unreadable stare; and then he'd told her to go, to work on her exam preparations for the remainder of the morning, and to come back after lunch, if she still wanted to spend time with him.

When she returned, a little past one o'clock in the afternoon, Severus unlocked the door to his workroom, and Calista felt a small, resigned flicker of amusement; of course he  _would_  insist on having their conversation over a cauldron. She supposed that must be where he had gone, when he'd asked her to leave and return: to procure the ingredients they would need for whatever potion would be complex enough to allow them to feign preoccupation.

She went down the stairs ahead of him, and then stopped suddenly at the bottom of the stair, once she realised what it was that occupied the surface of his worktop. It wasn't a cauldron; it was the Pensieve.

"I've been thinking about what you said," her father said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder, and guiding her down the last step, to the centre of the room. "And I suppose it's time to admit that you're right; that there are some things, now, that ought to go both ways."

She hardly heard him; her eyes searched the room, looking for the tell-tale silvery-blue of those hated glass vials.

"We're not… there isn't  _another_ memory for me to recover, is there?"

"No, Calista."

"Then why…?"

"There's an imbalance between us," he said, "You've pointed it out, several times; I know everything about your past, and you know almost nothing about mine."

She took in a breath, and looked up, hardly daring to believe the obvious implication.

"I told myself, a long time ago, that I would be forthcoming with you, once you asked — once you were old enough, and once you cared enough — to ask; but then, when you did, I chose the cowardly route, and I told both of us that it was for your protection, but that wasn't the truth… or at least, that wasn't  _all_  of it."

She recalled, suddenly, a conversation in the tiny kitchen upstairs, only a few months ago; he'd had the same look that he had now, and he'd asked her,  _How much do you want to know?_

"You're not the only one who chose the cowardly route," she murmured, "Sometimes I — there were things I chose not to ask."

"I know."

He exhaled, and took a step forward, to approach the Pensieve; and then, he reached for her hand, pulling her along with him.

"There are still things you can't know, things that I really  _am_  withholding for your protection; and I imagine there will be things you won't want to know."

"Dad, you… you don't have to do this."

He continued on, as if she hadn't spoken: "Allowing you to use legilimency against me might compromise both of those things; the Pensieve is safer, and it also ensures that I can't alter my memories, to make you see them in the light I want you to see them in."

He dropped her hand, and withdrew his wand, instead; and then, he placed his other had at her shoulder.

"I don't want you to think I don't trust you," he said quietly, "And it occurs to me that I've done a miserable job lately of showing you that I  _do_ ; so I'm going to let you ask me anything you want, and if it is safe to show you the answer, then I will — but you may not like all of it, and I.. I will not lie to you, Calista; I will never lie to you, even if it means I must damage what you think of me."

Calista swallowed; she  _knew_  what she wanted to ask. There were two things,  _always_ two things she wanted to know… but what if it  _did_  change what she thought of him? Whatever happened, whatever she learned, they couldn't go back; they could only move forward, no matter how much the path changed before them.

"How much do you want to know, Calista?"

The last time that he had asked her, she had been too afraid; but since then, she had already walked an unknown path, into the jaws of a wolf and into the very darkest parts of her own past, and she had come out stronger — in a manner of speaking, she had gone in on unsteady, tired legs, and she had come out with wings.

"I want to know about the doe," she said, around the racing of her heart, "And I want to know how you earned the Mark on your arm."

Her father took a breath, and for an instant, she saw fear flicker over his expression; and then, he nodded grimly, and set his wand to his temple. He began to wind familiar-looking threads around it; even when the silver-blue of memory wasn't hers, it made her shudder.

After a moment, he lowered his wand, and the attached filament, to the Pensieve.

"We've agreed that things ought to work both ways," Severus said, in a tone so soft that it seemed to blend with the darkness of the workroom, "So I need to ask you to do one thing, no matter what you see."

She swallowed, nervously. "What?"

He let go of her shoulder, and reached for her hand, and together they approached the lip of the basin, and its deceptively serene-looking contents.

"Stay with me," he said, "I don't want to remember alone."


	23. Chapter 23

Calista kept her grip on her father's hand as they approached the Pensieve, for her sake as much as for his; she couldn't quite suppress the chill of dread that crept along her spine as she gazed at the familiar, hypnotic milkiness of the memories within the basin.

The room around them dissolved away, and for an instant Calista expected a long, dark room with shiny wooden floors and a sofa of thick-black brocade that would threaten to suffocate her on sight; but when the vision materialised around them, even though the room  _was_  familiar, it wasn't the one she was afraid of; it was one that usually made her feel  _safe_.

They were looking at the tiny, worn kitchen of their home in Cokeworth, at Spinner's End; a cupboard that was missing a door in the version she knew was intact here, but the rest of the kitchen appeared darker, messier, and somehow less cared-for than she was used to. Dishes were piled beside the basin, which had no faucet; a couple of flies buzzed listlessly around in the weak beam of sunlight that managed to penetrate the dust-strewn window.

Calista felt her breath catch as two figures materialised as part of the memory, populating the kitchen.

_A skinny, sallow-looking woman takes a dented, scratched-up tin pot off the stove. She totters carefully over to the basin, not letting any spill over, and pours it in._

_Another figure, much smaller, scurries over — it is a little boy, scrawny and dirty-looking, with tangled, chin-length black hair and a nose that already looks too large for his face. He can't be more than five or six years old, at most, though he may be even younger._

"I had to go back a bit further than what you asked for," her father said quietly beside her; she nearly started. She had almost forgotten he was there. "I'm afraid you might not understand otherwise; although it's possible you still won't."

Calista blinked, as the implication hit her.

"That's  _you_?" she asked, and suddenly she couldn't tear her eyes off the skinny, bedraggled child.

_As if answering her question, the woman speaks:_

' _Careful, Severus,' she mutters, sticking her arm out; the child stumbles into it, righting himself quickly. He is an odd-looking little thing, with the beaky nose and strange, mis-matched clothes, but his eyes are alight. 'Water's hot.'_

' _I know,' the little boy says, stretching his fingertips to the edge of the countertop and latching on with one hand; he wiggles the other upwards, towards the piled-up dishes. 'I can help.'_

_The woman sets the tin pot on the floor, on the side away from the boy. Steam still rises from it._

' _You're too small,' the woman says, fixing the little boy with a particular sort of stare._

Calista started when she recognised the facial expression; it was very much like the one that her Aunt Narcissa often looked at  _her_  with; something like a fond, slightly patronising exasperation.

_The little boy scrambles away again, this time to return dragging one of the mismatched kitchen chairs; the woman manages a small, unenthusiastic sort of smile, and for an instant, her thin, tired face is transformed, while she helps the little boy position his chair against the edge of the counter, and he climbs up._

' _Not too small now, Mum!' the boy counters, smugly. He reaches for the basin, but the woman — his mother — stops him, taking hold of his wrist._

' _Water's hot,' she reminds him, and she plucks a grey cloth off the surface of the worktop, and dips it into the basin; the steaming water doesn't seem to bother her. She wrings the cloth out, letting out most of the steam with it, and then she holds it, and a dirty plate, out to the little boy._

' _Not_ this _,' the boy whines, folding his arms stubbornly. 'I help with_ magic _— you show me how.'_

_The woman purses her lips, and places her hand, the one that's still holding the cloth that little Severus refused to take, at her hip. She regards him thoughtfully, as if sizing him up._

' _I don't know, Severus,' she muses, 'Are you certain you're big enough to learn magic?'_

Anyone else would have missed it; the little boy in the vision seemed to be missing it — but Calista had seen that  _particular_ subtle flicker of expression since she was no older than the little boy, and she realised that his mother was teasing him, pretending she was considering him when in fact she'd already made up her mind. It made her smile, fondly, without realising it.

"She's going to let him," Calista predicted, "She's going to show him."

"Yes," her father said, beside her; but his tone was dull and somehow regretful, and it didn't match at all the feeling that Calista was getting from watching the pair. "She did."

_The little boy pleads and barters, so that by the time the woman chuckles and removes her wand from behind a loose brick beside the stove, he has already promised to sweep the floors, which look in desperate need of it, and to go to bed on time without arguing forever, or at least for a month._

_She mutters an incantation, and the dishes began to leap up out of the sink, one by one, to be scrubbed vigorously by the ragged grey cloth. She flicks her wand in between each one, rinsing the dishes with a jet of water from the end._

There was a distant sound, from where Calista knew the sitting room to be. She almost certainly wouldn't have paid it any mind if her father hadn't snapped to attention beside her, just then; his hand slid out of hers and his eyes were locked on the doorway, and so that was where hers went, too.

' _My turn,' the boy demands, fingers wriggling towards her wand eagerly, 'I want to do the magic now!'_

Calista was watching the doorway, so she saw the man slip quietly through it; she took in his tattered overcoat, his head of greasy, stringy dark hair, the long, beaky nose that was so precisely like her father's that he knew at once this man must be  _his_  father.

' _Well, well,' the man grunts, unpleasantly, 'Isn't this cosy?'_

_Mother and child both start; the plate the woman had been washing clatters noisily back into the sink, miraculously without breaking. Wordlessly, the little boy slips off his chair, and starts dragging it back to its proper place at the table._

' _Tobias,' the woman says nervously, slipping her wand into the pocket of her housedress, with a glance towards her son. 'You're home early; did you have a short day at work?'_

' _Got out of work the same time I always get out of work,' the man said, taking a step further into the kitchen. They both ignore, for now, the scrape of the chair's legs across the worn floorboards, as the boy scuds it along._

' _You — you must not have stopped at the pub today, then,' the woman goes on; her fingers tremble, and the man's eyes narrow, suspiciously._

' _No money to stop at the pub,' the man grunts again, and then: 'What are you so jumpy for? Doing something you shouldn't be, eh?'_

' _Don't be silly — I was just cleaning dishes.'_

' _Just cleaning dishes,' the man repeats; and then, all at once, the scraping of the dragged chair is evidently too much for him; with a low growl, he swipes at the chair, shoving it into place, and sending the little boy tumbling to the ground in one motion._

' _Hey—' the boy snarls, face dropping into a scowl, but his mother shouts over him, shrilly:_

' _Go to your room, Severus!'_

The boy obeyed; perhaps it was the urgency of his mother's tone, or perhaps, like the man he was now, he simply knew what was coming; Calista felt herself pulled along, forced to follow the boy's version of the memory. They went through the sitting-room, which felt darker, dustier, and somehow  _emptier_ than she was used to; she didn't have time to register why, as she followed both versions of her father up the stairs.

The boy didn't go to his room as bidden; instead, he sat hunched at the top of the stairs, looking both fearful and forlorn. Shouts and great shaking thuds and bangs, likely the stamping of feet and the slamming of cupboard doors, broke whatever peace he might have found.

' _Thought you weren't doing any of that rubbish in the house,' the man shouts at one point, and shortly after:_

' _It's all well and good when it makes things easier for_ you _, isn't it? And yet, when_ I  _ask for a bit of help from you — then it's all rules and excuses —'_

' _I've told you a hundred times,' the woman shouts back, practically shrieking, 'You_ can't make money with magic _! It's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Elemental Law of —'_

' _Excuses!' the man roars back cutting her off, 'I'm starting to think you_ want _us to be poor — and don't shake your head like that at me, if you wanted to help, there are other ways — your parents —'_

' _My parents won't give me the time of day, let alone a single Sickle,' the woman snaps back, 'Not since I 'disgraced my family' by marrying a Muggle —'_

There was another great, rattling thud from downstairs that made Calista clench her teeth, feeling suddenly outraged without quite knowing why; but then, the stair and the corridor around them began to disintegrate in a familiar way, and another scene swam into view.

It was the sitting-room, again; and though it was undoubtedly the  _same_ dim, dusty sitting-room of the home Calista and her father shared, it also  _wasn't_. There was the same chair, the same sofa, the same threadbare rug — though it looked decidedly  _less_  threadbare, and the curtains were drawn over the window, heavy and dark, as they had been when Severus had first brought Calista to the house, but as they never were now. The most startling difference, however, were the walls; where she knew them to be lined with bookshelves and stuffed with books, these were just bare, dingy off-white plaster.

Once more, the memory opened with two figures; the skinny, sallow-faced woman, looking decidedly more sour than she had in the last memory, was wiping the floor with what appeared to be the very same dented tin pot and grey cloth she'd washed the dishes with; Calista noticed that her actions were listless, as if she were merely going through the motions — her ministrations only seemed to be moving the thin layer of grime on the floor around, rather than removing it. The boy sat hunched in the armchair, not much older or larger than he'd appeared in the previous memory.

_Longish stringy black hair obscures the top part of the face, and a ratty, dog-eared book hides the lower half, as the child hunches over it, hungrily. The boy's clothes, again, are odd, mis-matched, and not entirely clean, and there's dirt visible underneath the fingernails that grip the covers of the book._

Calista took a step towards the boy, tilting her head to try and read the title on the book. If there had been one, it had long since worn away; there was nothing on the spine but a couple of flecks of old, peeling dark lettering, barely visible through the boy's skinny fingers.

"You're so small," Calista mused; it was jarring to see a version of him that was so vulnerable-looking. She flicked a glance at her father beside her, feeling a need to reassure herself of something she had only the vaguest idea of.

"How old were you?"

"Seven, I think. I'm not certain. Things… things often blended together, until…"

Calista nodded, and squeezed his hand. "I know what you mean — argh!"

She started, as a great rattling bang reverberated throughout the memory, and instantly, her eye was drawn to the child, who had started, too. The woman winced, slightly, but kept listlessly wiping the floor.

_The room is lit from one end, like a spotlight, but only for an instant; the shadow of a dark shape impedes the light, spreads over the floorboards like liquid._

_The boy looks up, eyes especially wide and wary-looking in the a thin, pointed face. Even the too-long nose can't distract from the already sharp gaze, and the way his features pinch, now, with concern. He freezes, looking over the top edge of the book, at the front door, the source of the sudden light, and the answering shadow._

It was the same man from the previous memory, and Calista noticed two things, at once: the spark of fear on the boy's face, gone as quick as it had come; and the neck of an open glass bottle, sticking out of the man's coat pocket.

_The man's eyes land on the woman, and his face twists into a sneer._

' _It's good to see you doing honest work,' he says, in a tone that somehow implies the opposite, 'Not hiding that blasted stick anywhere, are you?'_

_The woman frowns and shakes her head. 'No; I know you don't like it.'_

_The man's sneer deepens. 'Lazy, is what it is,' he says, and then: 'Suits you, I guess; lousy job you're doing, as usual. And_ him _.'_

_The man's gaze and a jerking arm went suddenly in the little boy's direction. 'Making yourself comfortable in my chair, eh, boy? Think you're too good to help your mum do the housework, do you?'_

_The boy's grip on his book tightens, and his expression grows warier._

' _No.'_

_The man steps towards the chair, and the boy; the boy stiffens, and he leans back into the chair, as if it can absorb him, but it's no use. The man stumbles forward and reaches for the boy at the same time, and even though the boy tries to scramble away, he comes up by the collar of his ill-fitting shirt in the man's fist._

' _No_ sir _,' the man hisses a correction, and then drops the boy unceremoniously on the floor; instantly, the boy scrambles back, and clutches his book to his chest._

' _Stay out of my chair,' the man growls, and then he mercifully takes his leave; he clambers past the boy and the woman without another glance at them, and into the kitchen beyond._

_A moment later, the clatter of the back door sounds; evidently the man has gone outside. That is the boy's cue to rise from the floor. He tiptoes over to his mother, and touches her shoulder gently._

' _You want me to help, Mum?'_

The woman looked up, and it was the first time Calista got a good look at her face; she realised that what she had first taken for mere shadow was the fading green-brown of an old bruise, beneath her right eye.

"He hurt her?" Calista asked; her father nodded, tightly.

"He didn't…" she frowned. "Did he hurt  _you_?"

At first, she thought he wouldn't answer. And then:

"A few times. When I wasn't fast enough, or… or invisible enough."

Calista opened her mouth, though she wasn't sure what her follow-up question would be, or whether one would even be welcome; but the boy was speaking again, and she found that she was very interested in whatever he had to say.

' _Why does he hate magic so much?' the boy asks, as his mother wrings the water out of the cloth and a sigh out of herself at the same time._

_His mother looks past him, craning her neck to look into the kitchen beyond, evidently ensuring that the boy's father, her husband, has indeed gone outside._

' _I couldn't say,' she murmurs; and then, she reaches up, and lifts the boy's hand off her shoulder, with a frown. She pushes him, gently but firmly, a step back, and shrugs. She might still be answering his question, or she might be trying to erase even the memory of his reassuring touch. Either way, the boy looks mildly wounded, and he glances down at his cradled book. It's still there; he nods._

' _I guess a lot of people hate things when they don't understand them,' the woman says, and the boy looks up again, face creased by a small, harsh frown. 'Or when they can't be part of them.'_

_The boy's little face is so intense now that it's as if his older, present-day self is somehow looking out of it._

' _I can, though, right?' the boy says, voice low. 'I can go to Hogwarts, right, when I'm eleven, and I can be part of magic and part of Slytherin and part of Quidditch and Gobstones and Slug Club?'_

_The woman manages a small, thin smile._

' _Yes, Severus,' she says, tiredly, 'You can be part of all those things. But not today; when you're eleven, like you said. Today, you can be part of your room, or you can take another rag from the kitchen and be part of helping me scrub this floor.'_

_The boy considers briefly, and then he nods. 'I'll be part of helping,' he says, 'But first I have to put my book away, so it doesn't get wet.'_

The scene began to dissolve again, as the boy scrabbled up the rickety stairs.

"Your book," Calista said quietly, feeling a queer prickling in her chest. "Was it a journal?"

Severus' gaze flickered towards her, with a brief measure of surprise, as if he'd just remembered she was there.

"That would be uncanny, wouldn't it? But it wasn't, no; I read whatever I could get my hands on, but I never kept a journal — unless the margins of my textbooks count."

"You  _wrote_  in your books?" she replied, automatically, with mild alarm. Her father smirked, slightly.

"Oh, yes; the first of many dark deeds, I suppose."

Calista suppressed a mild shiver; though his tone was light, there was something foreboding edging around it. She reached for his hand again, before she could think better of it.

"It's still uncanny," she murmured, "That little boy — you — it's just like you said, with me; no one's really taking care of him like they should."

"I —" Severus began, but then a new scene, a new day, was materialising in front of them, and he fell silent.

The sitting room, the kitchen, and a small, dingy bedroom appeared and disappeared, in turn; she watched the hook-nosed man berate the boy and his mother again and again. As time passed, the woman grew somehow shrunken and defeated; she began to move through the house like a ghost. The boy grew defensive and sour; he tried to comfort his mother, more than once, and more than once, she drew herself away from him. Eventually, he stopped trying.

In one vision, when the boy was perhaps nine or so, skinny and somehow sickly-looking, jaw set with what appeared to be permanent resentment, the man handled the boy  _so_ roughly, throwing him up against the dingy plaster wall for supposedly spilling a glass of sticky brown stuff that had slipped from the man's hand while he snored in the armchair, that Calista found herself striding forward, fingers reaching for the smooth pine of her wand in her pocket, rage prickling against her forehead.

"Leave him alone," she hissed, without realising she was going to, and then a hand landed softly on her shoulder, and her father's voice followed it.

"We can't help him," he said, offering a reminder that was achingly similar to the one he'd given her when they watched her own darkest memories play out like this, nearly a year ago.

"Well, someone has to," Calista said, feeling her words pile up in her throat; the sensation spurred her heart rate a little faster. "Someone  _is_ going to come to help him — help  _you_  — aren't they?"

Severus was silent for a long moment, as the scene finished playing out, and the room began to dissolve around them once more.

"For a time," he told her, in a low, wounded sort of tone that she'd hardly ever heard from him. "And then, he'll push her away."

As if he'd summoned by his words, a new memory began to whirl into view around them; this time, in contrast, the lighting was blindingly bright, the full sun of a fair, bright afternoon.

_Two young girls arc through the air on a swingset; neither would look particularly remarkable, but for the smaller girl's banner of striking red hair, catching the glints and glimmers of sunlight as it streams behind her. She's swinging much higher than the other girl, too, and she grins fearlessly while the older girl frets and scolds._

_The same skinny boy crouches behind a bush, in his same odd, mis-matched clothes, but there's something about him now that is strikingly different; he looks_ happy _. He watches the girls — or rather, the smaller, red-haired one — with an eagerness that has him nearly bouncing on the tips of his toes._

_Suddenly, the red-haired girl — Lily, her sister calls her — leaps off her swing, sailing through the air in a manner a Muggle child shouldn't be able to. She lands artfully, giggling._

' _I'm fine,' she reassures her sister, 'Tuney, look at this. Watch what I can do.'_

_Lily approaches the bush, and the skinny boy starts slightly; while the girl picks up a flower from the ground, the boy takes a deep breath and straightens his neck, forcing himself to composure. He manages to school his features, hiding his grin, and adopts a solemn expression._

_Lily's showing Tuney a trick with the flower now, warbling its petals in the palm of her hand; Tuney shrieks and protests._

' _It's not right,' Tuney protests, and then she frowns, eyeing the flower as her sister drops it._

' _How do you do it?' she wonders, jealousy creeping into her tone._

_The boy takes a breath and squares his shoulders, and practically leaps out of the bushes._

' _It's obvious, isn't it?' he bursts out, startling the two girls. The older one, Tuney, shrieks and retreats, but Lily stays._

_There's a few seconds of awkward silence, and the boy seems to quail slightly, either under the weight of it, or under Lily's scrutiny. His cheeks turn pink._

' _What's obvious?' Lily finally asks, and nerves quirk the corners of the boy's mouth into a faint attempt at a smile._

_He glances behind her, undoubtedly to make sure that he won't be overheard, and then:_

' _I know what you are.'_

_Lily tilts her head. 'What do you mean?'_

' _You're… you're a witch,' the boy whispers, and the vapors of his smile are blown clean away in an instant as the girl recoils, scowling fiercely at him._

'That's _not a very nice thing to say to somebody!'_

_She turns and walks away, lifting her chin in a very childlike manner._

_The poor, skinny boy flushes furiously red, and for an instant, it looks like he might cry. Again, he forces himself to recover, evening his expression, and he lurches after the girls, ignoring the flapping of his overlarge coat._

' _You_ are _,' the boy tells Lily eagerly, despite her continued cold glare, 'You_ are  _a witch. I've been watching you for a while. But there's nothing wrong with that. My mum's one, and I'm a wizard.'_

_Lily's expression shifts to puzzlement, but the older girl, Tuney, leaps into assault mode instead. She laughs, harshly and humourlessly._

' _Wizard?!' she shrieks, in evident disbelief, and then: '_ I  _know who_ you _are. You're that_ Snape _boy!'_

Calista had been hearing the name 'Snape' — her name, and his — in that same icy, derisive tone for most of her life, and she grit her teeth and scowled now at the vision of Tuney just as she'd done every one of the hundreds of other times, when it had been Olivia Avril, or Portia MacNair, or nearly everyone that had met her during her first few years at school.

'Ignorant cow,' she muttered, and her father didn't admonish her; she thought he might have smirked, slightly.

' _They live down Spinner's End by the river,' Tuney was confiding to Lily, in the same snotty tone, and then, eyes narrowing at the boy: 'Why have you been spying on us?'_

' _Haven't been spying,' the young Severus said, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and then, with another valiant effort towards composing himself: 'Wouldn't spy on_ you _anyway;_ you're _a Muggle.'_

_The girls take their leave, both glaring distrustfully and a bit haughtily at the boy. He frowns, and his face falls as they walk away; he pushes a hank of greasy hair out of his eyes, and his shoulders sag._

"Who cares about them?" Calista murmured, bitterly, "He'll make better friends at school — he's got to be almost eleven by now, right?  _I'd_  be his friend."

Severus' mouth quirked, but it wasn't a smile, precisely; there was something sad pulling at the edges of it.

"I don't doubt that you would have," he said, and then: "I hope you still feel that way when this is done."

"Of course I will," she said, with more confidence than she felt; again, there was something dark and heavy that pulled at his tone and set her stomach churning — but like the boy, she squared her shoulders, and cleared her expression.

Another scene materialised in front of them presently; a cool, shady thicket of trees. Two children, the skinny boy and the red-haired girl sat across from each other within its shelter. The girl was peppering the boy with questions, about Hogwarts and magic and owls, and the boy was eager to oblige her with the answers.

' _You're Muggle-born,' young Severus was explaining to Lily, 'So someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents.'_

_Lily frowned. 'Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?' she fretted, and the boy regarded her, eyes moving over her face._

' _No,' he said, quite kindly, 'It doesn't make any difference.'_

_That seemed to ease the girl's fears; she lay back in the grass, relaxing. Severus smiled again as he watched her; briefly, his fingers curled up —_

It was precisely the way that Calista's fingers had curled eagerly, she realised, when she'd been told she was allowed to pick out a kitten at the pet store, long ago, on the first birthday she could remember ever celebrating; and why wouldn't it be the same? They had both been celebrating — eight-year-old Calista, and nine-or-ten-year old Severus — acquiring their very first friend, even if  _hers_  had possessed a couple more legs than his.

' _How are things at your house?' Lily asks suddenly, and Severus' face falls, creasing into a frown._

' _Fine,' he mutters._

Calista frowned, mirroring his almost precisely, though she wasn't aware of it.

' _They're not arguing anymore?' Lily presses._

_The boy scowls, and plucks a handful of grass and leaves, something to do with his suddenly nervous hands. 'Oh, yes, they're arguing,' he tells her, attempting to hide the razor's edge of misery in his tone, 'But it won't be that long and then I'll be gone.'_

At the edge of the memory, Calista saw the other girl, the older sister, Tuney, creeping up behind one of the trees that ringed their little thicket; neither of the two seemed to notice her. She tilted her head, leaning forward to eavesdrop as the two kept speaking — and then:

_Tuney loses her footing, rustling a low-hanging bough — the boy leaps to his feet, panic sliding across his features; the instinctive, instant panic of someone who has learned to fear surprises._

Calista felt her stomach twist up; she knew it was impossible, and probably odd besides, but she had as strong of a desire to reach out and help the boy  _now_ , when there wasn't any real danger and he merely thought there was, as when she'd seen his father abusing him. Just as she knew what it was like to wait for help that never came, she knew what it was to jump at every sound and every shadow.

_Young Severus' face turns scarlet; as soon as he realises who's come upon them, and that there isn't any danger, the fear vacates his face and he is left with a sour, bitter expression instead._

' _Who's spying now?' he stammers, attempting bravado, 'What d'you want?'_

_A spiteful look crosses Tuney's face, and then she levels a finger at him, twisting her mouth up in a sneer._

' _What's that you're wearing, anyway? Your mum's blouse?'_

_Crack! A tree branch falls suddenly from above, catching Tuney's shoulder on the way down._

_Severus starts, leaping back a step, eyes going wide. Lily screams; Tuney runs away._

_Lily rounds on the boy, accusing him of dropping the branch on purpose, and despite his protests, his insistence that he hasn't, she fixes him with a searing glare and tears off after her sister._

_The boy stands alone in the thicket, confused and obviously distressed, until they are out of sight, and then, cautiously, he approaches the fallen branch, kicks at a clump of leaves with the worn toe of his trainer, where his dingy sock sticks through._

' _I didn't do it on purpose,' he mutters, slightly frightened and more than slightly forlorn. 'I really didn't.'_

The scene dissolved, but there were several like it to follow; whispered conversations and daytime adventures, and always, the boy's face would light up when he was around Lily; nearly always, Tuney came along and picked on the boy; and nearly always, Lily took Tuney's side instantly. The boy didn't quite seem to notice the disparity, at least as far as Calista could tell; he was often left bewildered, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, and  _always_ , he was the one who would chase Lily down, later that day or in the next memory, and apologise until she relented.

"It's not fair," Calista said, the fourth or fifth time she'd seen that pattern play out. Her father started, and peeled his eyes away from the scene; there was a horrible, haunted look on his face. Calista felt her stomach twist up again, even though another sunlit day was happening around them.

"What's not fair?" he managed, voice strained.

"Them," Calista said, uncertainly; she searched his face for the cause of his sudden melancholy, but once he realised she was looking, his expression closed off abruptly, eyes flattening. "She keeps getting cross with him when it's the other one, Tuney, that always starts the trouble. She accuses him of things and then doesn't give him a chance to explain. She — she doesn't seem like a very good fr—"

" _Shut up_." Her father's words cut through the air, and through  _her_ , grave and whip-sharp.

Calista stepped back, wounded and uncertain — much like the boy, truth be told, after each of his tiffs with the girls. She didn't understand why her words had upset him so much; after all, he couldn't have stayed particularly close friends with this Lily girl, because Calista had never met her or even  _heard_  of her before; so then why did he look as if — as if —

In a flash, Calista realised where she'd seen his haunted, grief-stricken expression before, and a gaping hole opened up in the pit of her stomach as she realised precisely why she'd never met or heard of Lily before; except…  _oh gods_ , that wasn't true, was it?

"Merlin," Calista murmured, around a shaky breath, "That's — she — Lily's the doe, isn't she? And she… and she's…"

 _Dead_. She couldn't bring herself to say it, not with her father's dark eyes turned to her again, bleak and empty. He nodded tightly, almost imperceptibly, and Calista was suddenly ice-cold, as if a dementor had managed to invade his memories. A shiver ran up and down her spine.

"And…" Calista glanced over her father's shoulder at yet another memory; they were on the train platform now at King's Cross, and the sisters were arguing again, while young Severus stood several paces away, with his mother. She studied the younger girl's face carefully, scrutinising it, trying to imagine it many years older, trying to see the red-haired girl as an adult. She felt her heart thud in her chest.

"And I met her," Calista finished quietly, "I  _lived_  with her, before…"

Severus nodded again, and she could see a lump pulling its way down his throat; his eyes glittered.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly, though it was woefully inadequate, because there was nothing else she  _could_  say. She stepped closer again, despite the forbidding look he still wore, and she reached her hand up, towards his shoulder.

He lifted his hand too, and decisively, just as his mother had done to him in the sitting room that was and wasn't the one she knew, he lifted her fingers off his shoulder, and pushed her, gently, a pace away again.

Calista felt another stab in her gut; and then, she scowled, and she marched right back up to him, and she took his hand, and refused to let him wrest it away. From her father, she may have learned to pretend not to want comfort right when she most desperately needed it, but from Gerald, she had learned to insist on offering it, anyway.

Her father didn't resist long; only a few seconds, and then, he let their hands stay entwined, and his shoulders sagged slightly. She heard an indrawn breath, but when she looked over at his profile, it was as stoic, as hard and blank, as she'd ever seen it.

Around them, scene after scene played out; she saw the two of them on the Hogwarts Express, she saw them being Sorted — she into Gryffindor, and he into Slytherin. She saw a tall, handsome blonde Prefect welcoming young Severus warmly to the Slytherin table, and she realised with a jolt that it was her Uncle Lucius; she searched further down the table and saw an elegant, beautiful girl of perhaps fifteen in fancier robes than anyone else in the entire hall, and recognised her Aunt Narcissa. And then —

' _Hufflepuff!' the Sorting Hat calls out, from the top of a small eleven-year-old's head; the Hufflepuffs cheer enthusiastically, and most of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws clap politely, but several of the Slytherins hiss or jeer._

_Narcissa smirks and says something, mouth quirking with humour; a joke, perhaps. Beside her, a similarly striking girl with long, dark curls laughs, somewhat nervously. Her eyes dart to the Hufflepuff table, perhaps searching for someone —_

"No," Calista murmured, heart picking up a familiar staccato, even though this younger version of her mother doesn't look particularly threatening — maybe she waited until later, until  _after_  school to become so —

"That's Andromeda, talking to Narcissa," her father says, quickly and quietly by her ear, following her gaze. "I was never at school with Bellatrix."

It was the second time she'd made that particular mistake, but as soon as he said it, she realised he was right; of course it was Andromeda, and hadn't Calista  _seen_  her enough times now to realise the difference?

"I — oh," she managed, feeling a flush prickling at her cheeks. "Yes, it is. Sorry."

Once she had managed to slow her heart rate to a close enough to normal pace, she noticed something else, about the younger version of her distant aunt: like Lucius, she was wearing a Prefect badge, precisely like the one Calista had pinned to  _her_  robes. She felt a brief flicker of something, at that realisation: was it kinship?

The scene dissolved again; now she witnessed her father's school memories. She saw him struggling to maintain acceptance among his peers in Slytherin; it hadn't taken long for them to notice that he had only one set of new school robes, and that the few scraps of Muggle clothing he'd brought with him were odd, ill-fitting, and decidedly worn. They teased him, sometimes good-naturedly, and sometimes not, about his nose, his hair, his yellow teeth, and his habit of disappearing.

She saw him hole up in the common room, or in the library, as  _she_  had done hundreds of times — always alone, always in as quiet a corner as he could find, and always with a quill at the ready. He hadn't been lying, he  _had_  written in the margins of his textbooks, and even — Calista winced reflexively — in a few library books.

He had told her before that he'd never been chosen as a Prefect, and she could see why. She saw him sneak into the Restricted section, with a mixed rate of success, dozens of times, even when he appeared young enough that she suspected he was still a first or second year. Twice, he'd been caught by Lucius — and twice, he'd been let off by Lucius, who seemed to find it amusing. Andromeda wasn't as forgiving, the one time  _she_  caught him; she'd docked five points and sent him to his Head of House, a portly, greying man with quick, clever eyes.

That was the first of many detentions her father served; sometimes it was for sneaking around, and sometimes it was for dueling in the corridors, though she noticed that — as it had reportedly been with Gerald — it was very  _often_  four or more against one, and he rarely started trouble himself; he had a knack for  _finding_ it, or rather, it had a knack for finding  _him_.

She saw some things that made her feel as queer and uneasy as the earlier memories of his father had. She saw the young version of her father being teased and bullied by a group of Gryffindor boys — James Potter and his friends. She recognised Sirius Black; there was something in his bearing that gave him away almost immediately; or perhaps it was the fact that he resembled  _her_  in a few peculiar ways, the things that Aunt Narcissa had often pointed out: he had the Black cheekbones, the forehead, the hair. He had the same wide, grey eyes she knew as one of the family hallmarks, though she, mercifully, had been spared having to look at her mother's eyes every time she glanced in a mirror.

She recognised Remus Lupin, too. It was difficult to imagine how he'd become a Gryffindor, truth be told, when she watched this version of him. Undoubtedly, it was brave of him to withstand the horror of his monthly transformations, but it wasn't as if he had much  _choice_  in that matter. Here, when his friends ganged up on the poor, skinny Slytherin boy, his unease and reluctance were easily visible on his face, but he spoke up so rarely and so ineffectively that it made Calista wrinkle her nose up with impatience. His timidity reminded her of Emily, and the cruelty of his friends reminded her of Olivia, Portia, and Hecate.

Young Severus and Lily's friendship continued for a time, in much the same fashion as far as Calista could tell; he'd manage to offend her, either with his awkwardness, or something she'd heard from someone else that he had done. Sometimes she asked for his side of the story, but it was seldom that she actually  _listened_  to it. Still, knowing her fate, Calista couldn't quite bring herself to anger, again; she couldn't feel much of anything for the girl but a distant, wrenching sort of sadness.

At first, Lucius watched out for young Severus, and that seemed to be the glue that held him to his housemates; but then, Lucius graduated, and the skinny boy found himself dangerously close to being an outcast, again; the others teased him, not only for all the things they'd teased him about before, but also for having a girl for his best friend. The other taunts seemed to bother him; the ones regarding his friendship with Lily never did.

She saw Severus and Lily entering what looked and yet did  _not_  look like the Potions classroom; instead of rows of worktables, the room was dominated by a huge, fully set dining table. A tall, portly, vaguely self-important man whom Calista had gathered was the Head of Slytherin House welcomed a small stream of students in, Severus and Lily included; but quickly, once they were in the room, Lily left to join other friends, and Severus was left alone, looking forlorn and awkward.

The next time she saw the Potions classroom, it was almost entirely unrecognisable: it was festooned with garlands and hanging lights, and a crowd of at least twice the size, some looking much older than students, filled the room to the brim. Lucius Malfoy was there, but he was in expensive-looking green silk robes rather than his school garb. Calista searched the crowd for the teenaged version of her father, but though she spied Lily, laughing with another Gryffindor girl, she couldn't see him anywhere, until…

_He slinks into the room, shoulders hunched tightly, neck lowered even as his eyes dart around, looking for someone. She's in the corner, talking to a group of girls — his eyes light, and she starts to march in her direction, heedless of the others he passes, and when someone catches his elbow, he starts, scowling and sputtering, face flushing with embarrassment._

' _Snape, there you are,' says a thin, fine-boned seventh year boy, 'Slughorn sent me looking for you; very important job for you, he has.'_

' _I — what?' Severus manages; his eyes dart back towards Lily and her friends. 'I just got here.'_

_The older boy nods. 'Yeah, he saw. Asked me to give you these.'_

_The boy grins maliciously, and loads a stack of towels into Severus' arms; Severus flinches, narrowing his eyes._

' _What are these for, Avery?'_

' _Very important job, like I said,' the boy smirks, 'You're on lavatory duty down the corridor; make sure everyone dries their hands when they leave, eh?'_

Calista growled, and felt her fists clench; a spark of anger shifted into a tide, and she was suddenly in mind of having thrown her stack of books to the floor and punching Olivia Avril square in the nose; she willed Severus to do the same with the towels and with Avery's nose, but he didn't; he flushed, and he stood there, towels filling his arms, sputtering pitifully; Avery laughed and left, to go speak with Lucius. Hastily, before either Lucius or Lily had time to see him standing by himself, red-faced with an armful of towels, Severus threw them aside by the door, and scurried out of the room, shoulders bunching up even tighter.

The scene dissolved again, but the one that replaced it was no better; James Potter and his gang, again — this time they had Severus cornered in a corridor. James and Sirius both had their wands trained on Severus, and they were forcing him to dance, legs moving in odd, jerking motions while he scowled and tried to recite the counter-curse; but every time he tried, Sirius would flick his wand, hitting him with a Silencing Charm. Other students were watching and jeering, and poor Severus' face was flushed red.

There was a commotion behind James and his Gryffindor friends; Professor Dumbledore was coming down the corridor. Abruptly, they released Severus from their spells, and he scrabbled to maintain his footing, long fingers wrapped around his wand.

' _Malictus!' Severus howls, swinging his wand almost desperately now that there's a lull in his torment and he has a chance, 'Doloroculus!'_

_Both spells find their marks neatly; James's face and neck erupt in painful swelling, and Sirius' eyes swell shut under the effects of the Conjunctivitis Curse._

' _Enough!' the Headmaster roars, and Severus pales, at last realising the reason for James and Sirius' sudden cease-fire. Dumbledore's gaze sweeps over the scene, assessing._

' _Mr. Lupin,' he says, spying the pale, brown-haired boy at the edge of the crowd; a Prefect badge flashes on his chest. 'Kindly bring Mr. Potter and Mr. Black to the hospital wing. Mr. Snape, come with me.'_

' _This — it wasn't — I didn't start it!' Severus stammers, but the Headmaster gives no indication of having heard him._

The scene dissolved again, and now Severus was in the Headmaster's office, evidently arguing the aftermath of the incident.

' _They started it,' Severus insists again, face flushed. 'They — they_ always _start it, they're always coming after me for no reason —'_

' _As I saw it, you were the one hurling curses down the corridors,' Dumbledore reprimands him, 'You're well aware of school rules, Severus; no dueling in the corridors.'_

' _I wasn't dueling,' Severus mutters, resentfully, 'I was just defending—'_

_The Headmaster interrupts him with a sigh._

' _I don't have time for this, Severus; you have two options. You may apologise to Mr. Potter and Mr. Black —'_

' _What?' Severus splutters, 'Apologise to_ them _? I will not —'_

' _Or,' the Headmaster goes on, in sterner tones, 'You can serve detention on Saturday, with your Head of House —'_

' _Detention,' Severus says at once, voice laced with bitterness, 'I'll take the detention.'_

' _Very well.' The Headmaster sounds disappointed, but not at all surprised. 'I'll let Professor Slughorn know to expect you.'_

At last, in a memory that didn't appear to be too long after the corridor duel, judging by the apparent ages of the students and the Prefect badge on Remus' chest, Severus caught his break, at least among his housemates. He had been cornered, again, by Potter and his gang, accosted as he hurried towards the edge of the Quidditch pitch, shoulders hunched — but  _this_  time, he wasn't alone. A cluster of other Slytherin boys lagged a ways behind him, and some of them had broomsticks over their shoulders; it looked to Calista like the Slytherin team was on their way to start practise just as the Gryffindor team was ending, and just as it was now, both teams had evidently attracted spectators.

' _Hey, look, James, it's_ Snivelly _!' Sirius calls out, loudly; above him, Potter leans forward over the handle of his racing broom, guiding it effortlessly to the ground._

' _Oh, have you taken me up on my offer to teach you to fly?' James smirks, as two more figures — Remus and the shorter, mousy-haired boy, Peter — make their way over from the stands. 'It still stands, you know; only I'm not letting a slimy git like you near my broomstick for too long, mind you, it might catch something. Reckon I'll bring you up as high as I can go and then shove you off. Sound good, Snivellus?'_

' _With any luck, you'll learn to fly on your way down,' Peter says gleefully, and Sirius guffaws._

' _No, with any luck, he_ won't _.'_

_The four of them, and a few other Gryffindors who had been attracted to the scene, laugh uproariously. Severus flushes._

' _On second thought,' Potter reflects, 'I don't think I want you touching my broom at all, you great greasy lump. Suppose I just finish you off in a duel, instead —?'_

_His wand is drawn, and instantly, so is Severus', and so is Sirius'. Peter scrabbles for his, too, and then, finally — reluctantly — Remus draws his. He looks pale, and a frown creases his tired-looking face; behind him, the pale disc of a recently full moon hangs in the off-blue sky, just visible in the fading afternoon light._

' _James,' he tries, 'Perhaps we should just —'_

_James has no interest in whatever Remus has to say._

' _Malict—' he howls suddenly, but Severus is very quick; he deflects the spell, with one of his own._

' _Expelliarm —' he counters, but then Sirius flicks his wand as well, almost lazily._

' _Malictus,' he drawls, finishing what Potter started — and then, as Severus clutches his side in pain, Sirius looks to James, as if for approval._

' _Reckon we've taught Snivelly here enough of a lesson?' he taunts; Severus' expression twists, an ugly mix of pain, humiliation, and rage._

_The other Slytherins have finally drawn close enough to see what's going on; a few of them mutter comments under their breath, directed towards the Gryffindors, but they're outnumbered even still, with the crowd of Gryffindor spectators. A few of them look like they're doing the maths, and not coming up with an answer they like._

_Then, a shuffling within the cluster of green-trimmed robes; the tallest and broadest of the Slytherins shifts, and spits on the ground._

' _Best clear off, Potter,' he grumbles, 'Pitch is ours this hour. Cleared it with Slughorn.'_

' _Oh, we were finished, anyway,' Potter says easily, 'You'll want to be careful, though, the lot of you.'_

_The Slytherins hiss, and the tall one, Mulciber, lumbers forward. 'Yeah? And why's that?'_

_James grins, and mimes losing his footing. He rights himself, while a couple of girls fawn over him, gushing and making a show of helping him up, even though his supposed fall was pretty clearly for show._

' _Ground's all slippery,' James says, grinning. 'It's like someone got grease or something all over the pitch —'_

_Sirius and James and several other of the Gryffindors laugh and jeer, and it's obvious from the way the crowd looks at them, and at Severus, that they get the implied joke; even a few of the Slytherins snigger, and that, at last, is what sets poor Severus over the edge._

' _Levicorpus!' he howls, and in a flash, Potter's suspended in the air, hovering right beside his broom, upside down. Sirius advances, wand ready, but Severus isn't finished. He turns his his wand to Sirius, his next target, and slashes it angrily across the air._

' _Relashio!' Severus roars, and Sirius drops his wand, wincing in pain as boils erupt across his fingers._

_Released from Severus' attention and from the spell, James falls to the ground in a heap._

' _Diffindus Aculeus!' Severus hisses, slicing his wand across the space in front of him one, two, three times; angry red welts appear across the faces of James, and then Sirius, and then Remus, who has hurried over to try and help his friends._

_A girl among the Gryffindors is shrieking; most of them are backing away. Someone mutters something that sounds like 'fucking mental', and indeed, Severus' face is so mad with rage that he looks somewhat deranged._

_The crowd of Slytherins erupt into cheers; one of them, Mulciber, throws his arm around Severus' shoulders; that seems to jar him into some semblance of rationality. His twisted mouth relaxes, and he lowers his wand._

' _Brilliant, Sev, that was brilliant,' another boy says, clapping him on the other shoulder appreciatively._

_A shrill whistle rends the air; Madame Hooch is striding over, waving her arms. She hurries into the mob of students and disperses the crowd, sending Sirius, James,and remus to the hospital wing, and Severus to detention._

_Severus limps away, shoving his wand into his pocket; he rubs his own injured side once, briefly, but then squares his shoulders and marches on. The Slytherins cheer again._

Things shifted, then, in the memories that came next. Severus seemed to be accepted, at last, among his peers, something that hadn't happened comfortably since Lucius, and his protection, had moved on from Hogwarts. He became part of what was evidently the popular group of Slytherins, Mulciber and Avery — Calista wondered if he was related to Kim, and then gradually realised the  _rest_  of Severus' Slytherin friends were nearly all related to people she knew; there was a Yaxley, a sniffly MacNair; Ferada Nott, who was quite obviously dating Yaxley, and  _had_  to be Emily's mother — after all, how many Feradas could Calista's father have gone to school with?

With his acceptance among his peers, though, came a decided shift in Severus' behaviour, in his memories. The aftermath of his victory over Potter and his gang seemed to have emboldened him, or perhaps he really  _was_ afraid of losing his place, so hard-won, among his housemates. He joined them in conversations around the fireplace in the Slytherin common room that made Calista squirm; not because she'd never heard things like that before, but because she'd never heard them from  _him_.

' _You'll see, at the Christmas party,' Mulciber was saying, 'Lucius actually talked to him; he's got it all worked out. Non-magical blood and magical blood don't mix right, not over time — you know, a one-off from a pureblood line probably isn't that bad,' he says, with a quick glance towards Severus, who's leaning forward eagerly until he hears this bit, 'But keep it up and it all gets dirty —_ muddy _, if you will.'_

' _How does he_ know _, though?' Severus asks, 'I mean, has he conducted research — case studies — statistics?'_

' _Look at your parents,' Ferada speaks up, 'Didn't you tell us that you're dad's a useless Muggle lump?'_

_Severus shrugs, uncomfortably, face darkening. 'Yeah, he is.'_

' _Yeah, well,' Yaxley sneers, 'There you go. Imagine how much more powerful, how much_ better _you'd be, if you'd had a wizard for a dad instead of_ him _. Potter wouldn't dare cross you; no one would, if you were a pureblood, if you had more power.'_

_Severus' frown deepens._

' _Look,' Mulciber grunts, impatiently. 'You don't have to come to the party if you don't want to, Sev. I mean, I_ thought _you were one of us, but maybe I was mistaken. I suppose I can just tell Lucius you'd rather spend the holiday with Mudbloods instead of at his family's manor —'_

' _No,' Severus says quickly, leaning forward again. 'I'll go; I mean, I want to go. I want to. I want to hear what the Dark Lord told Lucius. I don't want to hang around — around Mudbloods, I don't.'_

There were more memories in that vein; there was the aforementioned Christmas party, which was lavish and beautifully decorated, and yet somehow held an energy in the crowd and in the air that was anything but festive; it reminded Calista of the fervent, ugly electricity that her mother had always returned from her meetings with. Lucius regaled the crowd with 'wisdom' imparted to him by the Dark Lord.

There was a horrible moment when Calista glimpsed a profile that made her start, set her heart pounding; ice dripped down her spine, and her father squeezed her hand.

"Is this — she's — is this where you and she — where  _I_  —" Calista managed, and her father shook his head, curtly.

"No, Calista, it isn't."

She nodded, and tried to concentrate on the memory, on what the younger version of Severus did in the vision, but it was no use; as long as Bellatrix was slipping in and out of the periphery of the memory, Calista couldn't concentrate on anything but that, on anything but her fear. She let go of her father's hand, to let her fingers grip her wand; it didn't make her feel any better.

Mercifully, that memory dissolved, but the next one wasn't any more comforting; She watched Sirius telling Severus that the gang would leave him alone for good, if he could manage to get past the Whomping Willow and into their lair; Calista was terrified for a minute that he was going to show her the memory of that night, that she would be forced to see his mortal terror in the face of a transforming werewolf, and irrationally she feared that she would see him torn apart, even though she was standing next to proof that he'd made it through the incident. Mercifully, her father seemed to have skipped that memory when selecting which ones to show her. The next scene that materialised must have been  _after_  that, because Lily brought it up, amidst berating him for his choice of friends.

_They're arguing over the same topics again; and once again, Severus is on the defensive almost immediately._

' _Mulciber!' Lily practically shrieks, stopping in her tracks to lean against a pillar in school's main courtyard, 'What do you see in him, Sev, he's creepy! D'you know what he tried to do to Mary Macdonald the other day?'_

' _That was nothing,' Severus reassures her quickly, 'It was a laugh, that was all —'_

' _It was Dark magic,' Lily says accusingly, 'And if you think that's funny —'_

_Severus' face flushes. 'What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up to?' he counters._

' _What's Potter got to do with anything?'_

' _They sneak out at night. There's something weird about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?'_

' _He's ill,' Lily says, 'They say he's ill —'_

_Severus quirks a brow. 'Every night at the full moon?' he prods._

_Lily frowns, and there's something in her eyes — something not quite cold, but perhaps even more devastating: something detached._

' _I know your theory,' she says at last, dismissively. 'Why are you so obsessed with them, anyway? Why do you care what they're doing at night?'_

Teenaged Severus fixed her then with a keen, solemn sort of stare, and Calista made a small noise in her throat, as she recognised it; it was the look he had when he very dearly wanted to tell someone something, and couldn't. It was the look he'd aimed at  _her_  for the better part of term, willing her to piece together the very same thing he was trying to convince Lily of, now.

' _I'm just trying to show you they're not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are,' he says at last, but it's not what he wants to say._

_Lily blushes, and lowers her gaze, quailing under his._

' _They don't use Dark magic though,' she mutters, and then, softer but a bit more firmly: 'And you're being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there —'_

' _Saved?' Severus splutters, wounded and angry all at once. '_ Saved? _You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends' too! You're not going to — I won't let you —'_

 _Lily hisses with rage, eyes narrowing into slits. 'Let me?' she seethes, '_ Let  _me?'_

_Severus, predictably, retreats at once in the face of her displeasure. He hunches his shoulders, and he deflates._

' _I didn't mean — I just don't want you to be made a fool of —' he's losing her, she's turning away; he speaks faster, as if that will change her mind when it never has before._

' _He fancies you!' he blurts out, 'James Potter fancies you!'_

The scene dissolved again; the next one was almost unbearably painful, and once again set rage to bubbling along the edge of Calista's skin. A slightly older-looking Severus, still scrawny and pale, scrambled aimlessly out into the afternoon sunlight following one of his O.W.L. exams; absorbed in a sheet of parchment — the exam questions, undoubtedly — he meandered along, ignoring everyone, and finally settled down in the shade created by a large clump of bushes. He leaned closer over the paper, muttering to himself about whatever was written on it; after a few minutes of this, he rose, stuffing the parchment into his bag, but Potter and his gang had spotted him, then; they approached, calling out to him in a derisive tone.

Teenaged Severus started and reacted quickly, but Potter and his friends were quicker; they disarmed him, and then proceeded to humiliate him, holding him down with hexes and jeering while he wriggled powerlessly, desperately sputtering a mix of epithets and hexes. They used a spell to force soap down his throat, causing him to gag and choke on the bubbles.

Calista yelled angrily, but — for once — she wasn't the only one. In the replayed memory, Lily strode forward, and demanded that James leave Severus alone.

' _What's he done to you?' Lily demands._

 _James smirks. 'Well, it's more the fact that he_ exists _, if you know what I mean…'_

_Most of the onlookers snigger. Lily frowns,and Remus hunches his shoulders, burying himself in the pages of his book, as if ignoring the situation will make it stop._

' _You think you're funny,' Lily says, with the same coldness she typically employs when she's cross with Severus, 'But you're just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him_ alone _!'_

' _I will if you go out with me,' James bargains quickly; while he is distracted, his hex begins to wear off, and Severus creeps towards his wand, spitting out soap bubbles and drawing in gasping breaths, while Lily informs James that she'd sooner date the giant squid._

_Severus snatches up his wand and aims it at Potter._

' _Ss- ssect —,' he starts, and then, his gaze sweeps over Lily, who's only a pace away from Potter, and he jerks his head slightly._

' _Diffindus Maximus,' he wheezes, instead, but his limbs are shaking and his face is still pale, breath coming in gasps; he stumbles as he casts, and the curse all but misses Potter, resulting in only a shallow gash in his cheek; nevertheless, it spurts blood over the neckline of his robes._

James reacted quickly; ignoring his bleeding face, he whipped his own wand towards Severus, and used his wand to lift Severus upside down above the crowd, jeering and displaying his skinny legs and his underpants for everyone to see. Calista averted her gaze, and nearly shook with the force of the rage that was coursing through her blood, against her skin; she would have done something, if she'd been there — she'd have made them regret —

' _Let him down!' Lily insists, and James obliges almost immediately; but Sirius picks up where James left off, paralysing Severus as soon as he crumples to the ground._

' _Leave him alone!' Lily yells fiercely, drawing her wand._

For once, Calista felt a surge of something besides just irritation or pity towards Lily; she felt a spark of affection, a glimmer of approval.  _It's about time,_  she thought, a bit unforgivingly, as James threatened to hex Lily for her interference. Still, she insisted, standing her ground, and James relented, turning his wand towards Severus again, but this time to mutter the countercurse to Sirius' ministrations.

' _There you go,' James says haughtily, as a shaking, twitching Severus struggles to his feet, the crowd still jeering at him and pointing; Mulciber is nearby, and Avery, and neither of them are laughing, but neither have stepped in to help him, either. 'You're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus —'_

_Severus catches sight of his housemates, watching silently, and his mouth opens._

' _I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!' Severus blurts out, almost desperately, watching Avery and Mulciber for their reactions; Avery smirks and Mulciber grunts something that might be an approval._

_However, Severus seems to forget all about his housemates in the next instant. Lily's voice cuts through the noise of the crowd, wounded and cold all at once._

' _Fine,' she says tightly, 'I won't bother in the future. And I'd wash my pants if I were you,_ Snivellus _.'_

_Pain flashes across Severus' face, and regret; but it's too late, Lily's already turned her gaze away from him and she doesn't see it._

_James whirls his wand on Severus again and demands an apology on behalf of Lily, but Lily doesn't want his help anymore than Severus wanted hers._

' _I don't want_ you _to make him apologise,' she shouts, 'You're as bad as he is —'_

' _What? I'd never call you a — you-know-what!'_

' _Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you've just got off your broomstick,' Lily sneers, 'Showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can — I'm surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.'_

_With that final declaration, Lily turns on her heel and marches away; James calls after her, but she ignores him._

' _What is it with her?" James asks, trying and failing at nonchalance._

' _Reading between the lines,' Sirius quips, 'I'd say she thinks you're a bit conceited, mate.'_

_A few people chuckle, now at James' expense, and he doesn't like this turn of events. His eyes light on Severus._

' _Right,' he says,'right…'_

_He waves his wand, lifting Severus into the air again._

' _Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?' he cracks, looking for encouragement from the crowd — but this time, Avery and Mulciber step in, Avery Disarming James — and Sirius for good measure — and Mulciber moves to help Severus up, from where he's fallen, once again, in a miserable-looking heap on the ground._

' _Laugh now,' Avery sneers, 'Laugh it up while you can, Potter — someday soon you'll have precious reason to — Mudblood-loving scum —'_

The scene dissolved again, and suddenly they were in a corridor that took Calista a moment to recognise; then she spotted the portrait that had been infamously slashed by Sirius Black only months ago, and she realised they were near the Gryffindor common room.

_Lily stands with her arms folded stubbornly in front of the portrait; Severus hangs his head, almost pitifully, before her._

' _I'm sorry,' he says, and Lily huffs._

' _I'm not interested.'_

' _I'm sorry!' he says again, a bit more desperately._

' _Save your breath,' Lily says, 'I only came out here because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.'_

' _I was,' Severus croaked, 'I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just —'_

' _Slipped out?' Lily interrupts, cold once more, 'It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you —'_

_This seems to wound Severus horribly; pain flashes across his features, but Lily goes on, heedless._

' _You and your precious little Death Eater friends — you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?'_

_Severus opens his mouth, but something in Lily's face, or perhaps something in his words, makes him quail. He closes it, retreating under her ire once more._

' _I can't pretend anymore,' Lily declares, with finality. 'You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine.'_

' _No,' Severus keens, earnestly, 'Listen, I didn't mean —'_

' _To call me Mudblood?' Lily challenges, 'But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?'_

_Severus struggles to find words; he takes a steadying breath, and another, but by the time he opens his mouth, Lily sears him with a look of utter contempt, and then she turns, retreating to her common room and slamming the portrait shut behind her._

' _Please, Lily,' he murmurs, to no one but the painting, 'If you would just — if you could just hear me out —'_

_But she doesn't; even the painting ignores him. After a minute, he scowls and turns away, looking every inch like someone who is grieving; his features are bleak, and cold, and nearly bottomless with despair._

There were a few more memories, a few more instances of Severus hanging out with Avery and Mulciber, and the rest of them; a few more attempts, just as useless as the first, to apologise to Lily, but soon, Severus was on the Hogwarts Express home again, face buried sullenly in a thick book.

There was another row at home; another flowering bruise under his mother's eye, another struggling attempt by Severus to comfort her; but he didn't try hard, or long. It was as if he'd given up. He didn't seem to be anything but glum, defeated, and broken, until one night, another memory, where he's surrounded once more by lavish furniture and the excited, fervent murmuring of a crowd — another of Lucius Malfoy's parties, only this one has a very  _special_  guest in attendance. Calista shivered, knowing at once who he was, even though she'd never properly met him, herself.

' _I sense power in you, Severus,' the cold voice croons, from beneath the hood of his cloak, 'I sense cleverness.'_

' _Th-thank you, sir — er, my Lord,' Severus stammers; his fingers tremble, and he closes them into fists, attempting to hide that fact from the Dark Lord._

_The Dark Lord pushes his hood back slightly, and studies Severus' face; then, a cold smile lifts the corners of his mouth. He looks pleased, and predatory, all at once._

' _You're trying to impress someone,' the Dark Lord observes, ' A girl, is it?'_

_Severus flushes and squirms. 'I think — there's no more hope for that…'_

' _Oh?' The Dark Lord's expression quirks, an exaggerated expression of curiosity. 'I don't think that's correct at all. You don't need to be so lonely, boy, if you'll just take what's rightfully yours.'_

' _Huh?' Severus stammers, 'I — sir — my Lord — take_ what _?'_

' _Power,' the Dark Lord hisses, and then:_

' _I can help you Severus; I can show you how to take it, how to take anything you desire. But first… first, you must prove yourself worthy.'_

' _I — how can I do that?' Severus asks, leaning forward; there is an eager, naked hope in his eyes, the first time in ages that he's looked anything but defeated._

' _I will tell you,' the Dark Lord says, adjusting his robes, leaning back; there's a smug quirk of victory on his features. 'I will give you instruction, when the time comes. Soon. For now, Severus — try and enjoy the party, yes?'_

_The Dark Lord takes his leave, and Severus trembles, breathing quickly and shallowly in the wake of the strange conversation. He looks nervous, but he also looks hopeful — temptation and eagerness gleam in his eyes; his shoulders straighten for the first time in a very long time._

_The cloaked figure disappears into the crowd; everyone else seems to be vying for his attention, but Severus sits alone, twisting his fingers together and contemplating. A few times, he looks around, perhaps hoping the Dark Lord will spare him some attention again; eventually, the Dark Lord leaves, Disapparating into the night, and Severus sighs, shoulders falling forward once more._

Another memory bubbled up, and suddenly they were in a room Calista knew well — dreadful dark scrolled wallpaper, a polished, dark dining table — so long ago, and yet not long  _enough_  ago, she had seen her own past self, a tiny frightened child, hiding under that table, and it was almost impossible not to imagine herself there, now —

"I'm sorry," her father murmurs beside her, grimly, "I'm sorry, but this is where it happened."

Calista choked on a whimper, trying to stay calm; she focused on the sound of her father's voice, on his steady, solid form beside her. She had to remember that in this memory, she didn't yet exist, so she couldn't possible be hurt…

_A tall, cloaked figure strides into the room, and suddenly everyone around the table rises, and they bow their heads; it's as if a god has walked into the room, their god._

' _So, young Severus,' the Dark Lord hisses, and he turns his eyes to the corner of the room. Severus slips forward, trying his best not to tremble. Though he is sixteen, though he is lanky and tall, he appears suddenly young, and afraid. 'You think you are ready to take the Mark, do you?'_

' _I —' Severus hesitates; the crowd around him hisses, perhaps encouragingly, or perhaps it's meant to frighten him, a threat of what might happen if he backs down, now._

' _Y-yes, my lord,' Severus says, swallowing his fear, and taking another step forward. 'I — I'm ready; I'm ready to — to learn from you. To — to take what's mine.'_

_The Dark Lord chuckles._

' _Very well,' he says, 'Come here.'_

_Severus steps forward, and suddenly he is grabbed from both sides; he starts, as hands scrabble at him, securing him in place, shoving the fabric of his robes asunder; there's a flash of silver — blade or spell, it's too quick to say — and a tearing sound, and then Severus' naked, skinny forearm is held aloft, gripped at the wrist and elbow by none other than Lucius Malfoy._

' _That will do,' the Dark Lord says dismissively, and the figures retreat to the edges of the room, until it is just he and the teenaged boy standing at the centre. He reaches for the young man's arm, cradling it with one skeletal hand in a manner that is oddly possessive, almost gentle._

' _You stand alone, now, young Severus,' the Dark Lord says, 'Alone, that is, but for me — at your side, but separate, are those you consider your peers. My followers; my loyal servants. You wish to become one of them?'_

_Severus swallows, and nods. 'I — I do, my lord.'_

_The Dark Lord peers at him in silence for several long seconds; and then:_

' _From the moment I Mark you, you must not waver; you will do as I bid; you will not question me. In return, you will be welcomed among those that fill this room; you will be valued and protected by me, so long as you merit it.'_

_Severus jerks another nod. Without warning, the Dark Lord's grip on his forearm tightens, and he presses his wand to the boy's forearm._

_He mutters an incantation — a strange, foreign series of hissing sounds that can only be Parseltongue — and then, the boy's forearm is encased in a black, smoke-like magical field; whatever it is must be horribly painful, for the poor boy twists and writhes, face contorting in pain._

' _Remember this pain, Severus,' the Dark Lord says, voice full with a quiet, terrible sort of power. 'And remember this moment, you and I, alone; this is what matters above all, Severus; I am your Master now, from this moment onward; and if you displease me, or betray me, this is but a fraction of the pain you'll feel…'_

' _He's going to cry,' someone says, voice dripping with mockery, and somehow, that seems to jolt Severus. He screws his eyes shut, and sucks in breath after breath, and at last, he manages to steady his expression; when his eyes open again, his face is impassive, though the black magic still swirls around his arm, and his eyes are filled with the screams he doesn't make._

_At last, the spell seems to be finished — the cloud dissipates, and the Dark Lord releases his arm, lifts his wand away. A fierce, thick-black shape dominates his forearm, now, and it seems to seep blood; thick scarlet droplets roll down the white, traumatised flesh, threatening to drip on the shiny wooden floor —_

Calista felt liquid dripping down her own face, and she tore herself away from her father's grip, wiping frantically at her face — for an instant, she was confused, she was  _certain_  the wetness was blood, somehow, that she was bleeding — a vision swam up, clouding everything in front of her, thick shiny drops of red pattering onto that very same floor…

She missed part of the vision, she was sure of it; for a moment, she was lost in the fog of her own horror, and it was impossible to cast a spell while she was caught up in the stream of memories; she tried anyway, wrapping her fingers around her wand, willing her Patronus to show itself — she imagined its bony, silvery nose, imagined touching it, imagined the wings spreading out, around her, guarding her from the darkness — and something  _did_  come around her, then, something warm and protective, just as she'd been desperately hoping for, but it wasn't her Patronus. It was her father.

"I'm sorry, Calista," he said again, heavily, "But you asked, and this is how it happened…"

She choked, and gasped, and nodded; she felt a wash of shame. This wasn't even her nightmare, and yet she couldn't quite seem to hold herself together…

' _Severus,' a chillingly familiar female voice murmurs, and there she is — she's approaching the dark, high-backed chair where Severus sits, arm wrapped in a towel that's dark with blood. 'That was very good; you didn't even scream.'_

_Severus shrugs and nods, uncertain; his neck twists and his eyes lift, meeting the woman's gaze._

_She smiles, and licks her lips. There's something wild in her gaze, something frightening and beautiful and mesmerizing all at once._

' _Most of them scream,' she says, and she lays her hand on his shoulder; she trails it down, slowly, along the same arm that has just been branded._

' _Sixteen,' Bellatrix goes on; she sounds excited, approving. 'That's young, for him to take you._ I  _was eighteen; but I'm special, too. I'm the only woman with the Mark; the only one that could handle it.'_

There was something in her voice, something heavy and compelling that drew Calista's eyes to her, despite her fear. This had to be it, then… this was how they had come together, how she had —

The scene dissolved abruptly.

"You didn't ask about that," her father said quietly, into the sudden and surrounding blackness, "You asked about the doe, and the Mark, and though I dearly wish this was the end of both stories, it isn't."

The blackness shifted into more memories, and they began to swirl faster now, going by in glimpses, in snippets of speech and brief vignettes; she saw Severus scribbling in books again, though she couldn't imagine how he could simply return to school after all that, after the horror and the fear that he'd experienced, in that horrible, dark dining room.

She saw him practising spells, saw him growing closer to his housemates, Avery and Mulciber and Yaxley and Ferada Nott; Lily never spoke to him again, as far as the memories showed, and despite her previous declarations regarding the giant squid, she began spending a lot of time around James Potter.

Severus graduated; Calista recognised the traditional ceremony as the seventh-years clambered into the same boats that had brought them to Hogwarts in the first place, years ago. Younger students weren't allowed to cross the lake, but she'd seen the beginning of the ceremony, when the students boarded the boats, several times already: she'd seen Kim Avery and her friends, and then her cousin Tonks, and finally, last year, Gerald and his friends climb back into the boats; they had all looked, as Severus did now, ridiculously large for the tiny boats. Where they'd crossed to the castle in groups of four, now there were only two in a boat, and knees and arms overflowed the narrow confinement.

James and Sirius shared a boat; Lily was with another Gryffindor girl, but she and James teased each other, boats never far apart, sending splashes and sprays of water at each other across the lake's surface. Severus rode in his boat alone, lanky legs still seeming to take up much of it. He glowered, looking anywhere but at Lily.

The memories kept coming; Severus with his school friends, Severus with Lucius and Narcissa. He was at their wedding; he was part of a group of cloaked figures that rousted Muggles from their home, setting it ablaze with the Fiendfyre curse.

A cluster of terrified people — a family, it looked like, two adults and two smaller, childlike figures — burst out of the house in a panic, looking for a safe path out, but there was none… Howls rent the air, the Death Eaters advanced on the family, and then, suddenly —  _Boom! Crack!_

One of the dark-cloaked figures set off a magnificent explosion, aimed at a tree beside where the family stood; Calista saw her father's familiar profile as his hood fell back. The tree toppled in a massive blaze, either crushing the family or hiding their escape; at any rate, by the time anyone could see through the thick haze of fire, the family was nowhere in sight.

She saw another memory, a confrontation between the Death Eaters and another group — Calista thought at first that they must be Aurors, until she realised they didn't have the symbol on their robes. She started to pick out faces, and hear names — Sirius Black, James Potter, Gideon Prewett — names her mother had cursed, had taught her to despise, long ago — and she realised that they were fighting with the Order of the Phoenix; she thought she recognised her father by his stance, his fluid wand motions, locked in a duel with Gideon, an older, red-haired man that bore somewhat of a resemblance to Percy. Gideon was a talented duelist, no doubt; but so, it seemed, was Severus, if it  _was_  him. His reflexes had improved since his school days,and were closer to the way Calista had seen them demonstrated throughout their countless defence lessons.

' _Sectumsempra!' the cloaked figure howls, and his voice is achingly familiar, it_ is _Severus. Gideon drops to the ground, blood flowering from gashes in his chest, his neck —_

Calista felt her stomach clench up in horror; she felt her throat tightening and burning, and for a moment, she was certain she was going to be sick; and then the scene shifted —

_Severus leans over the bleeding man, wand drawn. His hood has fallen back, over his shoulders and his face is grim._

' _Vulnera Sanentur,' he croons, songlike, over the man's form; the man thrashes, weakly, but he's lost a lot of blood, even though the flow is slowing, now._

' _Vulnera Sanentur,' Severus says again, intent on his task; the wounds bleeding slows further, to a sluggish seeping at the deepest cuts, and nothing at all beyond._

' _Vulnera Sanentur,' Severus says again, wounds knitting together. The wounded man breathes shallowly beneath him, still covered in his own blood, but still, undoubtedly alive._

A memory of her own floated into Calista's mind; a conversation, not very long ago, in her father's workroom, the very same place where they undoubtedly still stood, where they had delved into this strange and haunting phantasmagoria within the Pensieve.

Severus had confessed to her the origins of the spell that had so thoroughly devastated her, when she'd accidentally misused it; she recalled the pounding of her heart, the way she'd asked him,  _'Did you use it on anyone?'_ , only what she'd really wanted to ask was,  _'Is that how you got your Mark?' 'Of course I did,'_ her father had replied, somewhat darkly,  _'But I used the countercurse_ precisely _three times as often…'_

Severus reached down, and hauled Gideon Prewett, trembling and weak, to his feet. He reached into the pocket of his plain black robes, withdrew a small bottle, and pressed it into Gideon's hands.

' _Here,' he says, 'It's a blood-replenishing potion; get away from here, and take it.'_

_Gideon blinks, lip curling despite his evident weakness. 'Poison is it?' he manages, and Severus sneers._

' _If I wanted to kill you now, I would have,' he points out tartly, 'Get out of here, and take the potion, before I change my mind — and — and you can take one more thing, besides that brew.'_

' _What?' Gideon challenges, and he coughs, nearly collapsing; he is still very weak, and the grab he makes at his wand seems to be for little more than show. It's clear that Severus could fell him again before he could react, in the state he's in. 'What else would I take from_ you _?'_

' _A message,' Severus says, and his fingers tremble. He takes a breath, as if trying to steel himself, or perhaps as if trying to recall something, 'Take a message to Dumbledore — from the Dark Lord — show him your scars, and tell him that_ this _is what will become of the Order, if they continue to oppose us.'_

The scene dissolved again, and then they were in an unfamiliar place; another home, though it was one Calista had never been to. Severus was standing before the Dark Lord, nerves evident. His left forearm was being held out in front of him, held gracefully by the Dark Lord's long, pale fingers, wand pointed squarely to the middle of the dark black Mark there; it was horrifically similar to the scene in the dining room, so much so that Calista felt her knees tremble and threaten to give way.

' _I did as you asked, my Lord,' Severus manages, voice coming out quite steady to his credit. 'I delivered the message.'_

' _Yes, Severus, you delivered the message,' the Dark Lord says; there's something soft, sneering, cold in his tone. 'Of course — I don't recall telling you that the messenger had to be_ alive _.'_

' _I'd have killed him, my Lord,' an eager female voice says —_

Calista felt her heart racing again, but this time, her father did not notice. He was absorbed, so absorbed in the memory that was replaying; his face was hard, closed, and filled with a terrible expression, one that chilled her to her marrow. She forced herself to keep breathing, to try and pay attention.

' _Let it never be said that I question your_ particular  _enthusiasm, Bellatrix,' the Dark Lord says, and Bellatrix lights up, mad with glee and pride. 'However — I'm speaking to Severus —'_

_Bellatrix sneers, and her disdain for Severus is plain; she's not the only one._

' _Weak,' she declares coldly, 'Weak, my lord — I think we should cast him out —'_

' _Now, now, dear Bella,' the Dark Lord smirks; there's something odd about it, something almost indulgent, as if she's a favoured child having a tantrum, 'If I cast out every one of my followers that displayed less — ah,_ initiative —  _than you, we'd be a very small circle, indeed.'_

_Bellatrix basks in the glow of the praise, and there's something hungry and eager in the way she watches him, after that, that makes it seem as if perhaps she wouldn't mind that very much at all — perhaps, in fact, she'd be perfectly content with a circle of two._

' _I won't cast you out today,' the Dark Lord says, returning his gaze to Severus, 'However, I must say — I find your lack of demonstrable loyalty alarming — perhaps I have made a mistake, in trusting you, in Marking you.'_

' _N-no, my Lord,' Severus stammers; he glances past the Dark Lord, to another man — Yaxley, though Calista can't imagine why — 'I am loyal, most loyal, I swear it; I'll prove it._

' _I expect you to,' the Dark Lord sneers. 'You'll need to bring me something, Severus; something valuable. I won't be patient for much longer.'_

The scene shifted again, and now Severus was in the corner of a dark, dingy pub, heavy black cloak drawn up over his shoulders, head down. He was nursing a large, filthy-looking tankard of ale; he seemed to sip at it only when the barkeep tossed a suspicious look in his direction.

_A figure enters, a figure that looks utterly absurd and out of place, silver beard and periwinkle robes practically a beacon in the dark room; he nods curtly to the barkeep, and then, without so much as a glance around the rest of the room, he enters a plain, unmarked door at the rear of the pub._

_Severus' gaze follows the man eagerly; he fidgets impatiently when the barkeep casts him another look and then, when at last the barkeep is absorbed in uncorking a bottle of blood-red wine for a hag at the counter, Severus leaps to his feet, ale forgotten, pulls his hood tightly over his head, and creeps to the door through which Albus Dumbledore disappeared._

_He pushes it open with a soft creak; he winces at the sound, but continues on and up; it's a rickety staircase beyond,and at the top, a narrow hall with four doors, two at each end — from the furthest one comes a hoarse, guttural voice —_

' _THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES.'_

_The voice fades, and a commotion from behind him, at the bottom of the stairs only amplifies the problem; Scowling, Severus races along the corridor, straining to hear. There are footsteps now, climbing the stair — Severus hunches into the shadows at the end of the hall, and presses his ear to the door._

' _BORN TO THOSE THAT HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…' comes the guttural voice from beyond the door —_

' _Just as I suspected — knew you were up to no good —' Severus howls with rage, as he is hauled bodily from the door by the barkeep, grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks nearly as old as the Headmaster himself._

_Beyond, in the room, the voice goes on, but it's impossible to hear the rest, with the barkeep yelling — and in a moment, the voice stops altogether, and the barkeep pushes the door open, revealing the spy to the pair within…_

The scene shifted again; another house, the same one from the last time; the same figures circled the Dark Lord, and once again, Severus was brought before him, in the center… but  _this_  time, Severus' face was lit with a self-satisfied, triumphant grin.

' _I have it, my Lord,' Severus says eagerly, 'I have what you wanted — I have information, valuable information; a prophecy…'_

_He tells the tale, the secret meeting above the pub, the words he overheard._

_When he finishes, at last, the Dark Lord seems pleased._

' _You have done well, Severus,' he croons, 'Very well, indeed…'_

The scene swirled again, flashing into darkness and then into the next memory; there was an urgent, rising mood now, as if they were quickly nearing the climax of a terrible, horrifying story.

_Severus stands on the top of a hill now, surrounded by night and it's as if a storm is rapidly coming, or perhaps he's caught in it already; his robes whip around him, his hair whips around his face. He clutches his wand, looking around, desperately…_

_A blinding flash rends the blackness; not lightening, as seems appropriate, but a spell, and then Severus is on his knees, his wand ripped from his fingers._

' _Don't kill me!' he begs; the voice that answers is cold, and rumbles with power._

' _That was not my intention.'_

_Albus Dumbledore stands, face noble and impassive; he gazes down on Severus with evident distaste._

' _Well, Severus?' he prompts, 'What message does Lord Voldemort have for me now?'_

' _No — no message,' Severus gasps, wringing his hands 'I'm here on my own account!'_

_His fear, his horror, twist his face up; he looks mad. He looks otherworldly._

' _I — I come with a warning — no, a request — please —'_

_Dumbledore flicks his wand, casting a non-verbal spell that creates a bubble of silence around them; beyond, the wind and rain still whip and tear, as if determined to destroy the very night itself._

' _What request could a Death Eater make of me?'_

' _The — the prophecy… the prediction… Trelawney…'_

' _Ah. yes,' Dumbledore says, and his distaste has evolved now, into outright contempt. 'How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?'_

' _Everything — everything I heard!' Severus croaks, pitifully, 'That is why — it is for that reason — he thinks it means Lily Evans!'_

_Dumbledore's expression doesn't change. 'The prophecy did not refer to a woman,' he says, 'It spoke of a boy born at the end of July —'_

' _You know what I mean!' Severus shrieks, increasingly fervent, increasingly desperate. 'He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down — kill them all —'_

' _If she means so much to you,' the Headmaster says coldly, 'Surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?'_

' _I have,' Severus croaks, 'I have asked him. —'_

' _You disgust me,' the older man says, words dripping with the truth of it, 'You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?'_

_Severus' eyes are wide, his expression grim; he looks as broken as Calista has ever seen him._

' _Hide them all, then,' he pleads, 'Keep her — them — safe. Please.'_

' _And what will you give me in return, Severus?'_

' _In — in return?' Severus gapes; he appears to rack his brain, for something the Albus Dumbledore might want from him, and then he says, simply: 'Anything.'_

The scene faded again; when a new one sprang up, it was blurry, the focus was off — it took Calista several seconds to realise that it was because she was viewing it through a thick haze of tears.

_They are in the Headmaster's office, at Hogwarts. Severus is slumped in a chair, wounded and broken; a horrible, keening sound escapes him, a cry filled with unspeakable pain. The Headmaster stands grimly over him._

' _I thought… you were going… to keep her… safe…' Severus manages; it's as if the last of his soul has come out with these words. He looks like a corpse, if a corpse could be reanimated and forced to walk and talk on the fuel of grief alone._

' _She and James put their faith in the wrong person,' Dumbledore says heavily, 'Rather like you, Severus. Weren't you hoping that the Dark Lord would spare her?'_

_Severus exhales, weak and shallow. His eyes are bottomless._

' _Her boy survives,' the Headmaster says, and Severus twitches. 'Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans' eyes, I am sure?'_

It was cold, and calculating, and utterly wrenching; Calista could feel her own guts twisting under the pointed weight of those words.

' _DON'T!' Severus bellows, and he is too far gone, too broken, even to sob; 'Gone…' he chokes, 'Dead…'_

' _Is this remorse, Severus?' the old man's gaze holds a fierce, curious weight, as he fixes it on the younger, broken man._

' _I wish… I wish_ I  _were dead,' Severus says, and there is no doubt that he means it._

_Dumbledore's reply, however, is cold, devoid of empathy. 'And what use would that be to anyone?' he challenges, 'If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.'_

Beside Calista, her father's shoulders shook; a sound escaped him, the same awful, keening sound that his past self had emitted, in the memory that was before them. Through her tears, Calista reached for him; she leaned into him, and she wrapped her arms around him, even though they shook and even though he shook and even though she was not entirely sure how she felt about this, about  _any_ of this; still, there was one thing she  _did_  know: that no one, ever, should go through the sort of pain that he was going through alone.

He clung to her, trembling hands gripping at her shoulders as if he were drowning, and she was the glimmer of light at the surface of the water — the way out — while behind them, Dumbledore implored his younger self to dedicate his life to protecting Lily's son, Harry.

' _Very well,' Severus says at last, the voice of a man who has already used his last resort, 'Very well. But never — never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear… especially Potter's son… I want your word!'_

' _My word, Severus that I shall never reveal the best of you?' the Headmaster repeats, wonderingly. He sighs. 'If you insist..'_

The scene dissolved again, and it seemed that they must be at the end of it all; there couldn't possibly be any more pain to witness, could there? She had seen a man break… she had seen her  _father_  break, and he was supposed to be unbreakable…

_A memory materialises, one last time; this time, Severus is a little older, and there is something different, something he has that seems at once utterly out of place and somehow, perfectly the way it should be. A child, a dark-haired child sleeps against his shoulder; he glances first at the empty vial of potion on the desk beside him — a sleeping draught, spent — and then down, at the form of the sleeping child._

_Something shifts, something enters his face that has not been there for a very long time; something fills his eyes, and his arms tighten around the child just as she lets out a small, sleepy sigh._

_It is not happiness, precisely; it is not even hope. It is something at once simpler and far more complex: it is love._

At last, the final scene faded away, and Calista and her father were left standing, just as they'd begun, hand-in-hand at the lip of the Pensieve; everything was still blurry.

Severus withdrew his hand from hers, and he retreated; it left her feeling cold, and alone.

"Now you know," he said; there was something in his voice, something that seemed to imitate the cold way that he'd been spoken to, so many times. "And I expect you'll want to take your leave…"

His words, his tone, would have made Calista angry, if she hadn't understood; but she  _did_ ; she recognised the bleak desperation that lurked in the subtext of his words, because she knew  _him_ , and because she was that girl, that child, that had relied on him for her own safety, for her own  _life_ , that night in the final memory and a hundred other times since.

She couldn't possibly process everything she'd just seen; not yet, not like this, not in the dark of his workroom, not filling her lungs with the air that was still heavy with his grief and the weight of his failures; it would take her some time to decide how to integrate the shadows she'd just seen with what she already knew of him, but she knew that she  _would_ , somehow; she had to, because whatever failures she'd witnessed, he had never failed _her_ , and she owed him the same.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, voice thick and low and, above all, stubborn. "I'm staying right here, just like I promised. You're not remembering alone."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Hours later, Calista accepted her father's offer of a sleeping draught, surprising both of them; but it was a pragmatic move. She knew she'd be awake through the night, otherwise, haunted by her father's ghosts as well as her own, and she desperately needed sleep, if she were to have any hope of passing the rest of her exams.

It seemed strange to worry about exams in the face of everything that weighed on her; her father's memories,  _her_  memories, Sirius Black's escape, her increasingly conflicted feelings about  _everything_ ; but at the same time, it seemed perhaps that worrying about something normal, something concrete was perhaps the only way to avoid being swallowed up by everything else.

She slept, as much as she could, and she hunched over her textbooks, throwing herself into her revisions, and she sat at the familiar wooden table across from her father, and let him scold her into eating when she wasn't hungry, and even when she was. It was like worrying about exams — it was normal, and it was something they both desperately needed.

Neither of them brought up the Pensieve or the memories within it — either the first time or the second time they'd delved into it — until the very last day of term; the day that Calista finished her final exam, and the day before she would sail back across the lake, the way she'd come, seven years ago, to leave a place for good that had been her home even longer than that; a place that had been her home for longer than anywhere else ever had been, and in so many more ways.

"I think it went well," Calista was saying, as she chewed a mouthful of broccoli, over the ubiquitous table. "It was actually a bit of a break, having Ancient Runes for last — the translations were easy, of course, and then for the practical piece, they asked us to demonstrate our understanding of runes in whichever way we thought best. Most people asked for another translation, or started reciting rare runes or theories…"

"And you?" Severus' mouth twitched; like Calista, he appeared to be trying very hard to pretend that all of this was normal, that nothing had changed and that nothing was  _about_  to change.

"I showed them my runic spells, of course," Calista said, "So I suppose it's fair now that I didn't have to actually do them all for my Charms exam; I still performed them in front of a Ministry examiner during N.E.W.T.s…"

"Ah. Yes, I suppose that's one way to look at it." He frowned, and poked at his dinner with his fork. He hadn't touched a bite of it.

"It's strange, though, I —" Calista started, just as her father blurted:

"You must be relieved to be finished —"

 _Damn it._  The table in front of Calista blurred suddenly, and she sucked in a breath, hoping the force of it would somehow tamp down the upwelling of emotion that had sprung, without warning, from her gut.

"Calista — what's wrong —" She could hear the sudden alarm in her father's voice, and she felt his presence materialise at her side; he hovered, but didn't didn't touch her.

"I — it's —" Calista scowled, embarrassment making her cheeks and her insides hot with shame. "I — I can't — it's this fucking table!"

She could practically hear her father blink; and then, the hand that had been hovering over her shoulder came down on it firmly, and that was more of a relief than she thought it ought to be; it also released the floodgates, sending her tears flowing anew, and that made her angry, with herself and with her father and — unreasonably, inexplicably —  _with the goddamned table_.

"Language," her father admonished, utterly without any sort of force; and then, voice growing dark and heavy with dread:

"What is it, really?"

Calista sucked in another breath, cursing the fact that she hadn't thought to make coffee — yes, it was evening, and yes, it was a swelteringly hot summer day, but at that moment she'd have given nearly anything to wrap her fingers around the smooth, ceramic warmth of a full, steaming mug.

As if he'd read her mind, Severus lifted his hand from her shoulder, and swept to the other side of the tiny kitchen; he opened the cupboard, and took down a mug, and while his hands were busy, Calista found it marginally easier to open her mouth.

"I just — it's all so much, it's  _too_ much," she managed, "Everything, all of it — every minute, from — from the things you showed me, things that happened before I was born; things that happened when I wished I  _wasn't_ born; things… pain and fear and...  _her_..."

Severus' hands slowed, so that he made less noise, but — mercifully — he didn't turn, didn't stop his work. If Calista noticed that he took rather longer than was necessary to measure coffee grounds and re-washed mugs that were already clean, she didn't mention it.

"Nightmares," she went on, "Yours and mine. Danger — arguments;  _people._  Olivia Avril and Hecate Rowle and Marcus Flint —"

Something suspiciously like a growl came from Severus' throat, but he didn't turn, and Calista went on.

"Quirrell and then the attacks — the basilisk, and then Sirius Black and dementors and Rem — and a  _werewolf_  —"

Severus jerked his hands, moving faster now, and it was no longer mere suspicion that he had growled; she was certain of it.

"Not just… not just those things, though," she said, setting down her fork and wringing her hands in her lap, "It's  _everything_ , like I said: the good things, too. Christmas and — and birthdays, I never even knew there was such a thing before, and —"

The smell of coffee hit her nose as it brewed, and for some reason  _that_  of all things set her eyes stinging, and she still  _hated_  herself for it, hated the complicated storm of emotion that was churning inside her, even though it wasn't all bad; even though some of it felt suspiciously warm, suspiciously like that mysterious feeling that curled, sometimes, in her chest like a cat, that had shone through her father's eyes in the memory at the very bottom of the Pensieve.

"And  _cats,_ " she said, thinking of Yellow now, who was undoubtedly sleeping precisely in the middle of her pillow, and who would yowl a complaint when she moved him later to settle in for a fitful night of sleep, "And my friends, all of them — Kim and Connor and Ethan, Tonks and Percy, Amelia and Penny, Eva and Sofia and Daisy — and  _Gerald_ , and… and runes, and my Charms, and defense lessons and —"

Severus approached now, with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. He set them both down, carefully, one at his place, even though he had vacated it, and one at hers.

"And  _Merlin's beard, the coffee_ ," Calista said, reaching for it before it had even touched the surface of the table; she wrapped her fingers around it, and she didn't even need to take a sip for the warmth of it to flood her, to soothe her throat and her gut and her fears; but perhaps it wasn't really the coffee at all — perhaps it was the man who had brought it to her, when she most desperately needed it.

She took a gulp, heedless of the burn.

"It's — it's just, it's all been  _here_ , and even though things change, they never  _really_  change, as long as — I mean, it's just — we always come back to the table, and —"

"Calista." Her father's voice had that strange, keening note again, and that caused another upwelling somewhere in her gut. Part of her hoped she was going to be sick; that might be easier to bear than the force of everything she was feeling.

"I don't want things to change," Calista finished quietly, "I just want — you and me and — and —"

"Calista," her father said again, voice heavy and queer in precisely the same way that her insides felt, "We can take the table home with us."

Calista's wild storm of emotion erupted, then; she was no longer sure if she's laughing or crying, but  _gods_ , did such a simple thing make her feel so much better — she wanted to put her hand flat on the grain of the table, and so she did.

It took her several minutes to compose herself, even with one palm against the table and one wrapped around her mug.

"Okay," she finally said, once her coffee had grown cold — it was remarkable, but her father had hardly moved in all that time, his own mug abandoned across the smooth, familiar wood surface. "That's — yeah. Let's do that."

Her father nodded, and at last he left her side; he settled at the other side of the table, and reached for his mug, now undoubtedly stone-cold.

Most of the wild emotion had stilled, at least for the moment — but then, when Calista looked up, when she met her father's dark gaze, unreadable to almost anyone but her, she felt a storm cloud break off, and catch in her throat.

"I — Dad, there's one more thing I have to tell you," she said, quietly. "It's… it's about y— it's about the boy… from your memories."

Severus grimaced, jaw tightening. She realised he was desperately afraid, and it was no less unsettling than any of the other times she'd seen it; still, she'd found that she seemed to have a unique talent for quelling his terror, in moments like these.

"I still would have been his friend," she said, and for the moment, that — and the table between them — was all that they needed.


	24. Chapter 24

Calista usually packed her things the morning of the last day of term, stuffing them haphazardly into her trunk to sort out properly when she got home; but usually, she wasn't leaving Hogwarts for good, and she was filled with a queer, heavy sort of hollowness that made her think she ought to take her time, this time.

It was strange to imagine that she wouldn't be coming back to her dormitory room — or the tiny bedroom in her father's quarters — in a few months; it was strange to realise that for the next seven years, and the seven years beyond that, and on and on that someone  _else_  would sleep in what she'd come to think of as her bed, in her room. Someone  _else_  would fill what she'd come to think of as her wardrobe with their robes and their books. She wondered if the someone-else would think to brew a secret potion in their wardrobe — and despite the Prefect badge pinned to her chest, despite the phrase  _wildly irresponsible_ that flitted, unbidden through her mind, she couldn't quite deny that part of her hoped they might.

She packed her things up as carefully as she had ever done, the things from her dormitory room as well as from the room she'd occupied in her father's quarters. She tracked down all of the books she'd lent to her friends that had never made it back to her, and nestled them carefully among the clothes that always seemed to multiply, thanks to her Aunt Narcissa's penchant for shopping. She packed all of her letters from the school year — the vast majority of which were from Gerald — and she packed the tiny, worn journal that was the first thing she'd ever owned. The journal that had once, evidently, belonged to Andromeda; the one that had mysteriously shifted its allegiance to her, when she'd been small and afraid and utterly alone

That — just that, cradling the book and reflecting on how and why it had come to be hers — reminded her of another child who had once been small, and afraid, and alone. She swallowed, as the visions of her father's early memories swam to the surface of her mind, the ones she'd watched through the Pensieve in his workroom.

Like the workroom itself, there was a peculiar flavour to the memories; acrid, bittersweet, rich and deep by turns — a thoroughly complex infusion, and like the muddled odours of a potion in progress, it was difficult to separate and categorise each memory — each ingredient.

She had told him that she would have been his friend, and that was true, at least of the boy he'd been, thorns and all. She loved him  _now_ ; there was no doubt that he had saved her life, more than once, and he had even achieved the miracle of making her believe that her life might have been  _worth_  saving — but it was a long, complicated process from raw ingredients to finished potion, and there were so many potential pitfalls in between the boy he'd been and the man he was; so many places where the brew could sour, or seize, or become irreversibly lethal.

Calista fingered the familiar edges of her journal's pages with the pad of her thumb, unable to stop herself from remembering the roaring, burning fire she'd glimpsed; the Muggles she had to believe he'd saved, rather than harmed… she saw him, bleak and wild-eyed, on a windy hilltop, and she saw him in a dark-papered dining room that made her viscerally ill, arm extended and encased in a Dark spell, blood dripping down…

She gasped and winced, as her thumb was sliced neatly open by the edge of the page she'd been absently running along. She stick her thumb in her mouth, scowling, and then shoved the journal deep into her trunk.

"This is pointless," she muttered; her voice sounded flat and loud in the empty room. "It's stupid to think about it now, it's all done."

She made a willful and sudden decision to stop thinking about it; to ignore the creeping, vague unease that fluttered in her gut and behind her heart. She forced it aside, forced it to a deep, dark corner of her mind; one that she wouldn't often have cause to examine, and she pretended not to notice how much easier doing so had gotten since that awful night on the grounds, beneath the full moon, because she was not yet ready to consider what that might mean.

She pushed the lid of her trunk down decisively, grunting with effort; between all of her books and clothes and letters, it was full to bursting, and she had to sit on the lid in order to clasp it shut. Once she had done so, panting slightly, her eyes fell on the open, empty wardrobe —  _shit_. It  _wasn't_  entirely empty. She spied a book, wedged into the far bottom corner, and carried herself over to it with a resigned sigh. She didn't think she could possibly fit another thing in her trunk.

She leaned into the wardrobe, lifted the book out, and felt a queer tremor of —  _something_. She hadn't thought about this particular book for quite some time, and it had admittedly been months since she'd last written to the person who had given it to her. She settled back on top of the lid of her trunk and opened the book, reading the note that had been scrawled inside the front cover.

_Snapelet -_

_Our time to corrupt you is coming to an end. In a couple more years, maybe you'll be doing the corrupting. Conor's older brother started this book when he was in school, and we've added to it quite a bit. It's yours now - don't waste it! If you learn a new curse, poison, or anything else a Prefect would throw a nutty over, write it down in the book, but_ don't _let a teacher get hold of it, not even your dad. All of the pages go blank if anyone over twenty years of age opens it, and it's a bitch to get them back. Ethan's mum found it three years ago and it took us months to fix, so don't wreck it and come bugging me for help. That's the only rule — that, and you've got to find someone to pass it on to before you graduate. Enjoy, and happy Christmas!_

_Love,_

_Kim (and Ethan, and Conor, and Peter)_

Calista felt her mouth quirk into a smile of amusement. Despite the cringe-inducing nickname they'd bestowed on her, Kim Avery and her friends had accepted Calista even though she was several years younger than them, and Kim had been the first one to help her find the balance of making friends in her own house and staying true to herself; and even though Kim had responded with passionate despair when Calista had admitted to her that she'd been made Prefect, she liked to believe that secretly, Kim was a bit proud of her for it — though she had no doubt that Kim would most decidedly  _not_ be proud if Calista failed the mission she'd been given, all those years ago.

She flipped through the pages, sometimes grinning when one of the spells or potions triggered a memory —

 _Expulso_ , Kim had written once, during the height of her rivalry with Ethan's twin sister Elyse, a Ravenclaw Prefect,  _the Exploding Spell. I used it a few days ago on a turkey Ethan's mum cooked and Elyse is still cleaning stuffing out of her ears._

She had added a few entries to the book herself, in the first year or two that she'd had it, including a page detailing how she'd managed to keep the flame lit in her wardrobe for her misguided second-year Potions experiment without catching anything within it on fire.

A few of the spells were darker; her eyes lingered on the instructions for casting  _Diffindus Aculeus_ , the modified Severing Charm that she'd once used against Professor Quirrell, in the middle of the Defence classroom. She recognised Kim's slanting handwriting on the entry. It was strange; she'd known the incantation from the pages of the book for ages, but she hadn't dared to attempt the spell herself until her father had taught it to her. Like many of the spells contained in Kim's book, it had only a few words of description and an incantation; she and whoever else had written most of the entries had never gone to the trouble to explain further.

Suddenly, without quite consciously deciding she was going to, she reached into her pocket for the spare quill she'd slipped into it when packing the rest, and she spread the pages open on her lap and began to write, making her usual scrawl as neat as she could.

 _This spell is a modified Severing Charm_ , she wrote, underneath Kim's brief entry,  _though it behaves like an ordinary Severing Charm when used on inanimate objects, the inclusion of the Latin 'Aculeus', for 'sting' results in moderately painful welts when used against a living target, and as such it is officially classed a Dark spell when used in this fashion._

Calista tapped her quill to her chin, considering. And then, with a fleeting glance down at the shiny badge on her chest — the one Kim had despaired of — she added:

_This spell should only be used in dire circumstances, when your enemy must be startled long enough to be Disarmed, as there is no known counter-charm. Wounds from this spell can be treated with a general healing potion, or in severe cases, with a Stitching Solution, and in either case will generally take 15-30 minutes after ingestion of the potion to fully heal._

She flipped to the next page: a recipe for a Deathcap Draught, in handwriting that she didn't recognise. The page was full, so she located the next blank page, and then added a note to the bottom of the recipe:  _Antidote on page 40._

She copied the instructions for the antidote down on page 40, and flipped to the next page, and the next, adding counter-curses and healing charms where there was one that she knew, antidotes and healing potions that would treat spells for which there was no counter, and general information — including both a background on the spell or potion listed as well as appropriate words of caution — on nearly every entry.

By the time she reached the last page — her own, where she'd first written down the instructions for the contained flame spell years ago — her shoulders were aching from hunching over the book, and her fingers had nearly cramped around her quill.

She straightened and stretched, suppressing a yawn; Merlin, her neck and shoulders  _hurt_ ; she cursed herself for not taking the little book somewhere else, like the library or her father's office, to add the notations, but then she supposed she might have run the risk of having it confiscated. And besides, there was something fitting, and calming, about concluding her ownership of this little book on the same night that she was concluding her status as a student at Hogwarts.

She didn't have to think long on what to  _do_  with the book, now that she'd made her own additions. She tore a loose page from the end and started to write a note, ignoring the protesting of her already stiff muscles.

She poised her quill over the page.

_Dear —_

" _Attention, students."_

Calista started violently, dropping the book and quill and nearly tumbling off the lid of her chest when a sudden announcement rang out through the castle.

She heard Professor McGonagall's magically-magnified voice, and leapt to her feet; the last time an announcement had been broadcast throughout the whole school, it had been dire… she felt her heart quicken, instinctively; was Sirius Black in the castle again, on their last day and in broad daylight? Had he hurt someone, this time?

" _This announcement is for all fifth-year and seventh-year students,"_ came Professor McGonagall's voice; it was impossible to gauge much from her neat, clipped tone. " _Would all fifth-year and seventh-year students kindly report to the Great Hall immediately; in addition, any sixth-year students who have taken repeat O.W.L. examinations this year should report as well."_

Calista shoved the book and quill into her pockets — she was glad, again, for the oversized pockets on wizarding robes, designed to accommodate the length of a wand — and hurried out of her dormitory room, and towards the Great Hall; there was a flurry of activity in the corridors following the announcement, and many hushed whispers.

Some of the rumours Calista overheard were that the exam scores had come early — but if that were true, it would be the earliest that she had ever heard of official examination scores coming out from the Ministry — but the predominating rumour was that something had gone wrong with the exams, that their work had been lost and that they'd all have to sit them all again. She fervently hoped the latter wasn't true; she didn't know if she could handle her aptly-named N.E.W.T.s over again, not without a month's worth of desperately-needed sleep first.

She noticed that many of the students streaming towards the Great Hall were not, in fact, fifth or seventh-years, and evidently she wasn't the only one who had noticed,because a moment later, Professor McGonagall's voice rang out again:

" _This is a reminder that ONLY those students in fifth, sixth, and seventh years who have taken O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. exams this term should be in the Great Hall at this time; all other students must wait until the feast begins in an hour. I assure you that we will not start the feast without you."_

Calista found Amelia and Penny on her way, and then they all found Percy, near the very front of the room where Professor McGonagall stood with the other Heads of Houses, calling for order.

"No, you don't need to re-take the exams," she reassured a cluster of fifth-years who were hounding her with questions, "I'll explain everything as soon as everyone's here — Weasley, that had better  _not_  be a Fanged Frisbee you're holding —"

Percy let out a long-suffering sigh at that. "Fred, undoubtedly," he said, "Or George; really, I wouldn't be so glib if I were them. I expect they won't be, in a few moments' time when we all receive our scores."

"Wait — we're getting our scores  _now_?" Amelia and Calista shouted, nearly at once; Penny echoed the same sentiment, albeit it in much calmer tones.

"Of course, what else did you think we'd been summoned for?" Percy asked loftily, brow raised. "Father told me — it was a bit of an experiment this year, having so many examiners for each subject, and they hired a slew of interns to mark the written portions — all properly supervised of course — so that we could all get our marks sooner."

"I did think it was strange that there were so many," Penny mused, "It was only one for the O.W.L.s when  _we_  took them, but I heard they all got three or four this year, just like we did for the N.E.W.T.s."

Percy nodded. "They've been angling to get the scores out sooner for a while now, mind you, but Father thinks this whole embarrassing fiasco with Sirius Black —" here, he glanced towards Calista, and she tried and failed to suppress an eyeroll, " — has put the Ministry under some heavy scrutiny; they want some  _good_  press, see, and having the test scores come out like this will —"

He fell silent, and a general hush followed, as Professor McGonagall spoke up, magically amplifying her voice once more, though this time only to the students gathered in the room, and explained more or less the same thing Percy had; that the Ministry was pleased to announce that their exams had been graded already, and their results were due to arrive by owl at any moment.

As if summoned by her words, a storm of owls began to swoop into the Hall; and as if summoned by the owls, Severus appeared at Calista's shoulder, cutting a neat path through the crowd to reach her. Her friends edged away slightly at his sudden appearance, even Amelia, who had come to her house at least a dozen times during the previous summer.

Calista had a fleeting, scrambled sort of thought that they were avoiding him because of what he'd done — because of the crackling fire, and the swirling black cloud that had permanently Marked his arm — and then she remembered that  _she_  was the only one who knew about that, and that she'd already decided not to think about it. She shoved the flash of thought down again, this time burying it even further and deeper than she had before.

She caught a strange look from her father —  _was_  it truly strange, or was she adding her own interpretation? She scowled, and then, an envelope fell square on her head. She scrabbled for it, gratefully accepting the distraction as if it contained a lottery prize; but perhaps, in some ways, it  _did_.

With trembling fingers, Calista forced the seal open, and withdrew her scores —

_**SNAPE, CALISTA: Hogwarts Graduating Class of 1993** _

_**NASTILY EXHAUSTING WIZARDING TEST RESULTS** _

_**Certified by the Wizarding Examinations Authority — Official Record** _

_**Pass Grades** _

_OUTSTANDING (O)_

_EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS (E)_

_ACCEPTABLE (A)_

_**Fail Grades** _

_POOR (P)_

_DREADFUL (D)_

_TROLL (T)_

_**Calista Snape has achieved** _

_Arithmancy - O_

_Astronomy - E_

_Charms - O_

_Defence Against the Dark Arts - O_

_Herbology - E_

_History of Magic - E_

_Potions - O_

_Study of Ancient Runes - O_

Before she'd even had a chance to properly absorb her scores, they were plucked neatly from her hands, so her father could see them; she tried to wrest them back, and in the end, they each held one side of the page, huddling close.

"I got Charms," she breathed, relieved, "I got the 'O' I needed."

"Eight N.E.W.T. levels," her father observed, "That's quite —"

" _Ten N.E.W.T.s!_ " Percy crowed, triumphantly, interrupting Severus and anyone else who happened to be speaking within a ten metre radius, "I got all ten!"

Calista scowled. "That's quite a few less than Percy," she finished for him, in a half-hearted mutter, but no one heard her.

"What's this?" she noticed another cluster of text at the bottom of the score page, and leaned closer to read it:

_You are hereby advised that an official copy of the scores listed above has also been sent to the following recipients in accordance with your request:_

_Ignus Ivanforth, Chairperson, Experimental Charms Committee_

_Imelda Hipworth, Potions Department Head, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

Calista blinked, recalling that she'd been instructed to have her scores sent upon receipt; but she'd thought that they wouldn't come out until sometime in July…

"Wait," she said, mind racing, "I'm supposed to meet with the Head of Potions Brewing — this Imelda Hipworth person — the week after my scores come out, and then I'm supposed to start working after that."

Severus raised a brow. "And?"

"And — and, well, I've got my scores  _now_ , so does that mean — I already have to start  _working?_ Next  _week_? Every day? Full time _?_ "

Severus smirked.

"Ah, yes, that is the general idea; Welcome to work."

Calista snorted, brows furrowing, as she glared up at him, studying him surreptitiously. He still looked exactly the same; she hadn't realised she'd expected him to look different to her, but she was absurdly relieved to be proven wrong.

"Says the man who gets every summer off," she snarked, in the instant before her look would have been too long.

Severus narrowed his eyes and sputtered; he didn't seem to have a ready comeback.

"Miserable brat," he managed at last.

Calista hid a grin, feeling suddenly lighter than she had all day. "You forgot insufferable."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The end-of-term feast passed in a blur; a blur in which the hall was festooned with scarlet and gold decorations, and a significant portion of the Slytherin table sulked ominously, but a blur, nonetheless.

Calista had been afraid that she wouldn't be able to sleep, or that she would be plagued by nightmares, but for once, her sleep was peaceful and deep; whatever corner of her mind she'd banished her shadows too, they had obediently stayed, and her final night at Hogwarts was perhaps one of her best.

All too soon, breakfast had come and gone, and Calista was being herded to the docks beneath the school with the rest of the seventh-years; though the Heads of House usually saw their students off, her father was conspicuously absent this time, as he had already gone to the other side of the lake, to greet her there, with the rest of her friends and family.

Of course, since most of her friends were graduating too, or were staying behind in the castle — the younger students were permitted to see their seventh-year friends off, but would board their carriages and, in turn, the Hogwarts Express in a few minutes, while the seventh-years went through the graduation celebration on the far side of the lake — and since she supposed Uncle Lucius and Aunt Narcissa would need to be in London to meet Draco at the platform, Calista didn't imagine there would be many friends  _or_  family waiting for her on the other side. Perhaps that was why her father had gone, despite his Head of House duties.

At least it was a Saturday, which meant that Gerald would likely try to come, though in the frenzy of N.E.W.T. examinations and everything  _else_ that had happened in the last week, she hadn't thought to properly invite him. She tried to come up with someone else who might be there — Percy had said that he had at least a dozen people coming, including his older brother Charlie, who was coming all the way from Romania — but all she could come up with were her father and, most likely, Gerald. Still, she reflected, if she had to have only two people, at least they were her  _favourite_  people.

Her classmates were beginning to break into twos and threes and to climb into the little boats, as their younger friends waved cheerily, or in a few cases, a bit teary-eyed. It was funny; they'd travelled in fours on the way here, almost seven years ago, but it seemed that everyone now had grown impossibly taller and lankier. Calista frowned, suddenly sad without quite knowing why.

Several of the younger Slytherins gravitated towards her; Sofia threw her arms around Calista's waist, causing her to start, and then the rest of them followed suit.

"Argh — get off me — really, I don't do hugs."

Well; that wasn't precisely true, but she didn't have much of a fondness for  _surprise_  hugs. She grit her teeth so  _she_  wouldn't get teary-eyed.

"Don't worry," Sofia said earnestly, "I'll keep order when you're gone — I plan on taking my Prefect duties  _very_  seriously, even when you're not here."

"I don't doubt that at all," Calista said, summoning an even tone, "But please be sure to have a  _little_  fun; at the very least, you've got to sneak down to the kitchens after curfew."

Sofia flushed. "I — er — I usually leave things like that to Eva."

Calista felt a glimmer of a sly smile. That reminded her of something; something she had to do, but not  _quite_  yet. There was someone else she had to speak to first; someone who was sniffling and wiping reddened eyes a few paces away, at the edge of the docks.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Daisy Spratt was saying, in a trembling voice; her fist was clutching at the back edge of the boat that her brother George had clambered into; he leaned over, simultaneously attempting to placate her and to pry her fingers off the boat.

"Daisy, I'll see you at home in a couple of hours," George reiterated, managing not too sound  _too_  patronising, "We'll have the whole summer, remember?"

"But next year!" Daisy wailed, "What will I do without you and — and without Calista?"

She glanced up, as Calista approached. Eva, Sofia, and the rest of their group of Slytherin girls — Mildred Bulstrode, Alma Pierce, Tabitha Higgs — followed close behind.

"I reckon you'll do just fine," George said, patiently, "I'll write you all the time once you're back in school, and I'm sure Calista will, too, but right now I've got to  _go_. I'll see you at home, all right?"

Daisy nodded, but sniffed again, loudly. "You… you'd better," she muttered; her cheeks went pink as she realised that her friends had more than likely overheard the entire exchange.

"You've still got  _us_ , you know," Mildred grumbled, "Plus my sister and  _her_  friends — are we chopped dragon liver now?"

"N-no," Daisy ducked her head, "Of course not. I just — I..."

Calista didn't get to hear the rest of Daisy's explanation; an ear-splitting yell carried over the crowd, echoing throughout the underground hollow, and drowning Daisy out:

"Oi! Calista! You staying behind another year, or what?" Amelia huffed impatiently, from where she was balancing on the edge of the wooden dock, holding one of the last little bobbing boats in with a charm that kept threatening to come undone.

"I'm coming," she called, suppressing a scowl. "Just — just give me a minute, okay?"

While Amelia grumbled, Calista took a breath and leaned forward. She  _wasn't_ one for surprise hugs, but, she swallowed and pulled Daisy into a quick, slightly stiff one nonetheless.

"You'd better write me," she murmured, by Daisy's ear, as the younger girl responded by trapping Calista stubbornly in the hug, much as she'd grabbed onto her brother's boat. "I want to know everything that's going on at Hogwarts — you'll tell me, right?"

"I — yes," Daisy said, eagerly; Calista thought her voices sounded a bit clearer, a bit less stuffy, as she confirmed. "Of course I will."

"Good," she said, and then:

"I've got to go, Daisy, but Eva's going to give you something later, and it's from me. A note. Don't read it until you're alone somewhere, all right? It's something kind of secret."

Daisy nodded eagerly, eyes drying. "I'll be careful, I promise."

Calista extracted herself from Daisy's grip, and retreated from the cluster of Slytherin girls, catching the eye of one in particular.

"Eva, can I have a word?"

Eva nodded, eyes glittering with curiosity; Daisy's look was curious, too, as she followed them with her eyes. Calista caught Amelia's eye just as her friend's mouth opened again, and she held up one finger and waved, indicating that she'd be along soon. Amelia huffed, but didn't shout again.

"What's going on?" Eva asked, as they climbed halfway up the staircase to the great wooden doors that would lead back to the castle, out of the echo zone and just out of earshot of the crowd, but still within sight of where Amelia and George held two of the final boats to the shore. A few stragglers were climbing into the other boats that hadn't already begun sliding away. Professors McGonagall and Sprout were saying good-byes, and ushering the last boats out into the lake. A few of the boats had already begun their crossing.

"You're not giving me one last scolding, are you?" Eva continued, suspiciously.

Calista's mouth quirked. "Not exactly," she said.

She reached up, fingering the silver and green badge that had been affixed to her robes almost every day for the past three years. Carefully, she undid the back, and removed the pin, slipping it into her pocket; she wrapped her fingers around something else within it, at the same time.

"There's something I've got to give you," Calista said, "And I don't feel quite right about doing while I've still got my Prefect badge on."

"Oh?" Eva's brow quirked, with interest. "What is it? A list of secret passages? A year's supply of dungbombs?"

"In my pocket?"

"All right, maybe the list then?"

"Not quite."

Calista drew the object that her fingers had landed on from her pocket, and held it out, though she didn't let go, initially.

Eva's disappointment was plain. "A book? You're giving me a book?"

Calista opened the front cover, and slipped a folded and sealed sheet of parchment out from within it.

"It's not  _just_ a book," she said, "It's — well, I didn't have time to write you a proper note about it, but there's one in the front cover that it was given to  _me_  with, four and a half years ago, and I think it explains it well enough."

She opened the cover, turning the book so it would be right-side-up for Eva, and held it out. She watched as Eva's disappointment slid into a sly sort of delight.

"Snapelet?" she asked, erupting into a grin, and Calista scowled.

"If you ever call me that again, I'll take it back  _and_  I'll hex you."

"Right." Eva's grin widened. "This is  _excellent._ I always knew you weren't completely boring, Prefect or no —"

"Right," Calista interjected, because she didn't have a lot of time — Amelia was signalling frantically from the shore again — "And here's the part where I should give you the Prefect lecture — and trust me, I'll be writing you with one shortly — but I'm out of time and there's something I've got to ask you to do, so for now I just need you to promise me two things."

Eva's nose wrinkled. "I was  _really_  hoping you'd let me have this without a lecture, but I suppose I knew better — all right then, what am I supposed to promise? To be responsible, not to hurt anyone if I don't have to, blah blah blah?"

"Yes," Calista said, "That's half of it, and  _trust me_ , I'll know if you don't adhere to that — I have my ways —"

She ignored Eva's raised eyebrows, but it was true; she still had other friends in the castle, and if she had to, she'd direct her father to the book, forcing its pages blank — but she didn't really think she'd need to resort to that, or she wouldn't have passed the book on in the first place. For all her posturing, Eva's heart was in the right place, and that was why Calista had chosen to give her the book, and to extract a second promise from her:

"And I need you to promise me something else. Keep an eye on Daisy; don't let Gretchen Nott or anyone else push her around."

"I already do look out for her," Eva reminded her, "You don't need to make me promise — but sure, yeah, of course. Maybe I'll even teach her some of these spells…"

Calista's mouth quirked, at the resurgence of Eva's mischief-laced grin.

"It's your book now, so I guess that's your call, though I suspect Sofia will raise a few objections..."

"Why do I bother having Prefect friends?" Eva grumbled, half-heartedly. "Bloody narcs…"

"Ca- _lis_ -ta!"

"I've got to go," Calista said, as she heard Amelia's frantic summons; one glance told her that only two boats, hers and George Spratt's, were still at the dock waiting for occupants, "I'll write you — but here, this is the last thing I need you to do."

She held out the sealed parchment.  _Daisy_  was all the front said; inside there were only a few lines of text, but she had a feeling they'd mean everything to Daisy.

"Give this to Daisy on the train. I think it will make her feel a bit better about next year."

She didn't have time to explain, despite Eva's questioning look; in fact, she barely had time to dash over to the docks, and scramble into the little wooden boat that Amelia looked very much like she was nearly done saving for her.

" _Finally_ ," Amelia muttered, throwing herself into the boat behind Calista; they were the second-to-last-boat to do so. It rocked threateningly, and then sliding away from the dock, seemingly of its own accord. "I thought we'd  _never_  get out of Hogwarts."

"Aren't you going to miss it all, though?" Calista asked, "The classes, and the castle, and the… the…"

She stopped, as she saw the very last seventh-year step carefully into the very last boat, the one that George Spratt had been holding patiently at the dock.

It was Emily Yaxley, and to Calista's utter surprise, she threw her arms around him as she climbed into the boat; he flushed, and he helped her settle down in the boat, and when he settled behind her, he leaned over to kiss her cheek shyly just as the boat begin to drift away from the castle.

"Miss it?" Amelia snorted, "The homework and the ghosts, you mean? Are you  _mad_? Of course I won't miss it — hey, what are you looking at?"

She followed Calista's gaze, and Calista nodded her chin towards the other boat.

"That's Emily Yaxley and George Spratt," she said quietly; Amelia raised her eyebrows and shook her head slightly.

"Okay… and?"

"And… and I had no idea they were… you know, an  _item_."

Amelia snorted affectionately. "Of course you didn't; you're always the last one to notice stuff like that."

"I am not," Calista retorted automatically, but she knew Amelia was probably right, and she didn't argue the point particularly hard.

"I think they're cute together," Amelia said, and Calista found herself nodding.

"Yeah. I think so, too. George is — he's really nice, you know."

"He's all right, for a Slytherin," Amelia agreed; Calista flashed a scowl just as Amelia matched it with a teasing grin.

"I always liked his sister, too.," Amelia added, a bit more seriously. "You think she'll be okay? I saw her blubbering when we were leaving."

Calista recalled the words she'd written the night before, and which were very possibly making it into Daisy's hands this very minute, or would soon. She could still see the carefully chosen words, when she closed her eyes:

_Daisy —_

_Do you remember the day when you followed me up to that room on the seventh floor, and it turned into a replica of the Ravenclaw common room?_

_You told me something that day, something I really needed to hear. You told me that the real virtue in being a Slytherin was better than just being just, or brave, or even wise — it was having the drive to do something meaningful with all of that._

_I can't really repay you for that lesson, but I'm going to try my best, anyway. The next time you feel like you need someplace to think, or to hide, or just to_ be _, away from everything else, go back to that room. Walk back and forth in front of the tapestry three times and think about what you need. The room will let you in, and even if it's not what you're looking for, it will be exactly what you need, even if it doesn't seem like it at first._

—  _Calista_

"Yeah," Calista said now, opening her eyes and meeting Amelia's questioning gaze. "Yeah, I think Daisy will be fine."

"Good," Amelia said, and for a few minutes, the two friends just sat quietly, as their boat approached the tall curtain of ivy that would take them out of view of the castle.

"Calista?" Amelia said, quietly; the boat began to slide into a tunnel, blocking the sunlight.

"Yeah?"

"I lied. I  _am_  going to miss it. All of it.'

Calista nodded, even though Amelia couldn't possibly see it in the near-dark.

"Me, too."

The boat emerged, and suddenly, they were surrounded by the brilliant light of day; both girls squinted, as the far shore swam into view. They were still too far to make out individual faces, but they could see a crowd gathered at the other side.

Calista turned, craning her neck to look behind her; Amelia did the same thing.

The castle was gone; all they could see was a solid-looking curtain of ivy behind them.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The first familiar face Calista saw, as the shore drew closer, was her father's. He was standing beside a multi-coloured bouquet with legs — Calista felt her mouth stretch into a smile when she recognised  _Gerald's_  legs, even amid a veritable sea of two-legged floral arrangements; evidently, it was a popular graduation gift. Even her Aunt Narcissa was holding a small arrangement of expensive-looking lilies, beneath a pinched expression.

She scrambled out of the boat before it had quite reached the shore, splashing one foot into the shallow, muddy water at the edge of the bank; though she saw her aunt wince as the mud splashed up onto her shoe, she didn't care. Gerald stepped forward, shifting the flowers to one hand and using the other to guide her gently up the bank by the elbow, saving her other shoe from being splashed.

" _Beaucoup de félicitations, mon colibri,_ " he murmured, _Congratulations_ , and once she had both feet firmly on the grass, he presented her with the bouquet; she made out poppies and nasturtiums, and the dark green sprigs of ivy before another smaller bouquet was pressed into her hands, as well.

"Calista, darling, congratulations," her aunt said, passing the posy over as Lucius nodded stiffly beside her; she could see him narrowing his eyes, and she followed his gaze a short distance down the shore, where Professor Dumbledore was speaking with Amelia's parents; on graduation day, even the parents of Muggle-born students were welcome, though their memories of the precise location of the mysterious lake would of course be altered.

"We can't stay long, I'm afraid," Narcissa continued, "We've got to meet Draco at the station of course, and your Uncle Lucius —"

"I refuse to lend my presence for longer than necessary to any occasion where that doddering old fool is presiding," Calista's uncle spat neatly and quietly, eyes still on the Headmaster.

"Ahem," Narcissa said, frowning and wrinkling her nose further. "Yes, that — but we can stay a few —"

A sudden motion and loud whooping sound to her right caused Calista to start, nearly dropping both bouquets, and then suddenly, someone had latched quite heavily onto her shoulder and was shouting in her ear:

" _Snapelet!_ You've finally made it —"

"It's good to be done, eh?"

"Honestly, wish I could go back —"

" _Kim_?" Calista managed, recovering and gaping simultaneously, as she registered precisely  _who_  had glommed onto her shoulder, and who was gathered  _behind_  her, "Ethan? Conor? And for Merlin's' sake,  _don't call me that_!"

Kim grinned, and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder; she still looked exactly the same, even though both Ethan and Conor were broader than she remembered, and Ethan's spots had cleared up. His hair was shorter, too.

"Snapelet!" Kim crowed again, victoriously; Calista scowled, sneaking a glance back towards Gerald, whom she had tried very hard to keep that particular nickname from; to her dismay, he was sniggering, though he did try to hide it behind his hand when she caught him.

"You remember Elyse?" Kim went on, gesturing behind her, to another familiar-looking girl in a lightweight blue jumper, and a dark-haired one Calista didn't immediately recognise.

"Yes," Calista said, cautiously; but she needn't have worried. Kim tugged Elyse forward by the arm, and she smiled, a bit reluctantly.

"Hi, Calista," Elyse said, "Erm, and congratulations — Kim told me you were made Prefect, despite her best efforts to corrupt you —"

"Unfortunately," Kim muttered, and Elyse frowned, but it struck Calista as decidedly good-natured.

"Here they go again," Ethan muttered, but Kim and Elyse were both laughing, now.

"Erm," Calista said, looking between them; something about the unfamiliar dark-haired girl caught her eye again. She shook her head. "You… you two get along now?"

"On occasion," Elyse admitted, and Kim smirked.

"She tolerates me," she agreed, "'Course, she has to — we're about to be family!"

"Huh?" Calista blinked, while Kim proudly snatched up Ethan's hand; Calista caught a flash of something glittering on Kim's left ring finger as she did so.

"Ethan and I are getting married," Kim said, "I asked him last month — we've been waiting to tell you in person…"

"Oh — " the dark-haired girl moved, sidling closer; there was something peculiar, something  _familiar_  about her grin; Calista shook her head, slightly disoriented. "Erm — erm, congratulations."

"Merlin's balls, don't sound so excited," Kim muttered; then there was a brief, temporary hush, during which her Aunt Narcissa cleared her throat delicately.

"Calista, darling, it's time for us to go, I think; we'll have you and your father round later this week for tea and a proper celebration, yes?"

"Oh —" Calista glanced at the dark-haired girl again, who was inexplicably grinning. "I — yes, that's fine. Thank you for coming, I guess —"

Narcissa stepped back as the Headmaster swept by, looking a bit like she'd smelled something unpleasant, but then, Calista knew she didn't care for crowds; she and Lucius said some parting words to Severus, who was staying more or less on the sidelines while Calista's friends bunched around her, and then the two of them took their leave.

" _Finally_!" someone said, in a very familiar voice; Calista's head whipped around to the dark-haired girl — who had suddenly become a  _pink_ -haired girl, with a heart-shaped face and a wide, bright grin. "I was starting to think they'd never leave!"

" _Tonks?_ " Calista answered her cousin's grin with one of her own. Gerald reached out suddenly, taking both bundles of flowers from her hands, wearing a smile that made Calista suspect that he'd known exactly who the dark-haired girl was all along, just as Tonks threw her arms around Calista's shoulders; Kim and the others followed suit, even though they'd already each done so. Even Elyse Briggs patted her shoulder awkwardly.

"And you're finally done with Hogwarts!" Tonks crowed, "We're going to get you  _so drunk_  to celebrate —"

Kim whooped an agreement, and Conor and Ethan laughed; behind them, Severus glowered and grimaced; his mouth opened.

"Erm, we can talk about that later," Calista said hastily, before her father  _or_  her cousin could embarrass her further; it looked like it was about to fail, when mercifully, Gerald swooped in:

"I don't believe I've been properly introduced to all of your friends," he said, smoothly, and then; "Erm, Snapelet."

Calista scowled, and Gerald grinned sheepishly, while Kim burst out laughing.

" _Don't_  call me that," she hissed, while Kim stuck her hand out, and Gerald shook it.

"Kim Avery," she said, "This is Ethan and Conor — and Elyse —"

"I know Elyse," Gerald said quickly, just as Elyse said:

"Hello, Gerry."

"Gerry?" Kim's eyebrows went up. "As in Gerald — the famous boyfriend I've heard so much about?"

"Boyfriend?" Elyse's brow quirked now, too. She smirked. "Well. That seems oddly fitting, from what I remember of you, Calista — though I can only surmise that  _you_ , at least, outgrew the need to keep troublesome lists, since you eventually became a Prefect."

Calista opened her mouth to clarify that he was Gerald  _Boot,_ former Prefect and Head Boy — though Calista couldn't imagine who Elyse had him confused with — when Tonks cleared her throat, loudly.

"Erm — Calista — do you have a minute?"

"Of course," she said, just as Gerald nodded, and motioned her forward, a bit  _too_  eagerly.

'Yes, go on, Calista; I'll — er, I'll just catch up with… with Elyse and your friends —"

Calista followed Tonks a few paces away.

"So Mum came with me," her cousin said quietly, "But we didn't want to startle you — and plus, I think Mum really didn't want to see Nar- _priss_ -a if she didn't have to —"

"She's really not that bad," Calista said automatically, and Tonks snorted.

"Yeah, okay, tell me what when you're disowned — but seriously, is it all right if Mum comes over to say hi?"

Calista nodded, and swallowed. She felt a funny little flutter in her chest, and she was grateful that Tonks had asked first, before Calista had caught sight of her in the crowd. "I — yeah, that would be nice."

Tonks retreated into the crowd, and came forward, accompanied by her mother — and  _still_ , Calista felt a small surge of dread as her eyes took in the curly dark hair, the grey eyes — but it went as quickly as it came, as she reminded herself of the differences between her own mother and Andromeda; as if to exemplify these differences, Andromeda stopped a pace away, and smiled warmly.

She glanced over her shoulder,expecting to see her father materialise there, as he always seemed to when something made her nervous — but she couldn't see him at first; when she did finally find him, he was deep in conversation with Emily Yaxley's mother.

"Calista," Andromeda said, in a voice that really was nothing like Bellatrix's, "It's good to see you again; I hope it's all right that I came with Nymphadora —"

" _Mum,_ seriously, don't call me that," Tonks groused; her mother rolled her eyes.

"It's bittersweet, isn't it?" Andromeda went on, regarding Calista with a small, wry smile. "Leaving Hogwarts for the final time; though I imagine it won't fully sink in for a few days."

"It… it already does feel like that," Calista admitted, finding her aunt's description particularly apt. "Bittersweet." She frowned, feeling suddenly awkward; perhaps it was the jubilant buzz of the crowd around her, so at odds with the strange,  _bittersweet_  feeling in her gut.

"Erm — do you want — I mean, would you like to meet some of my friends?" Calista ventured, and Tonks grinned, interjecting:

"Ooh, Mum, d'you want to meet her  _boyfriend_?"

Calista felt her cheeks warm, as Andromeda grinned; the resemblance in that moment to her daughter was uncanny.

"As a matter of fact, I  _would_  like that," she said, "Lead the way."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Introducing her Aunt Andromeda to her friends was surprisingly less awkward than she'd been afraid it might be; she'd even introduced her aunt to her friend's families, to the Weasleys and to Amelia's parents, whom she suspected  _still_  thought she was a nutter for nearly setting their stove on fire, once.

Severus  _had_  come over, once he had noticed Andromeda, but with significantly less alarm than Calista expected; she had cause to wonder if he, too, had known about Tonks' presence, as Gerald had seemed to. He chatted with Andromeda for a few minutes, and squeezed Calista's shoulder briefly, but overall, it struck Calista that he seemed awfully  _blasé_ about what could potentially be considered the most important day of her life so far — not that  _she_ really considered it as such, of course, but weren't parents supposed to? Amelia's, for instance, kept blowing their noses, and Percy's mother had burst into tears  _twice_.

Eventually, the crowd started to thin, as the  _pops_ of Disapparation happened more and more frequently; she made hasty plans to meet up with Kim and her friends soon, and to write to Amelia as soon as she got home; Andromeda invited her to come visit soon, and cast a waspish glare at her daughter when she brightly suggested that Calista bring firewhiskey along with her when she came.

"Only joking," Tonks confided, with a wink, "You're our guest; of course  _I'll_  bring the firewhiskey."

By the time Tonks and Andromeda left, the sun was casting the golden glow of late afternoon over the glassy surface of the lake, and there were only twenty or so people still milling about its shore; she saw her father speaking to Professor Dumbledore, looking about as pleased to be doing so as her Aunt Narcissa had looked, while a few other parents, including Mrs. Yaxley, hovered nearby, undoubtedly waiting for  _their_ turn to speak to the Headmaster.

And then, at last, she realised that she and Gerald were alone. He seemed to realise the same fact at precisely the same time; he slipped close, pressing his hand to her cheek, and kissed her, deeply.

"It's good to see you again,  _mon colibri_ ," he said, quietly, when they had broken off, "In person, and in one piece. I must admit, it's a relief to have you out of school now; between the basilisk last year, and the dementors and — if the rumours are true — a  _werewolf_  this year, I'm starting to think Hogwarts isn't nearly as safe as I've been led to believe."

"Rumours?" Calista blinked; slowly, it dawned on her that she hadn't really spoken to Gerald properly, for more than a few minutes through a letter or through the fire, since  _before_  that night on the grounds. She realised that he didn't know the proper details of any of it — Remus, the wolf, the dementors, the black dog, her Patronus — he didn't even know about Marcus, or the fact that she'd successfully cast her first Memory Charm to stop him from revealing her secrets to the entirety of Slytherin House. It seemed absurd, that so much had happened of which he wasn't aware. For a moment, Calista felt as if she and Gerald were standing a lifetime apart, despite the warmth of his body next to hers.

Gerald was nodding anxiously. "That Defence professor — I met him, didn't I? — they're saying he was a  _werewolf_ , and that he got loose on the grounds, the very same night that Sirius Black was caught and escaped; and the dementors, nearly attacking a student? I  _warned_  the Ministry, thank goodness no one was really hurt."

Calista nodded, slowly; for a moment, it felt like an unbelievable stroke of luck that he'd heard precious few details that deviated from the Ministry's, and the  _Prophet's_  official version of events. She could keep her mouth shut, and he'd never have to know about her full history with Remus Lupin,  _or_  the fact that only sheer dumb luck and an extremely timely intervention from a strange black dog had spared her from becoming the wolf's prey; there was nothing saying she had to tell him about Marcus, or the Memory Charm, or the dementors' fingers, cold, around her throat…

And then, looking into Gerald's kind, concerned face, she recalled the gentleness of his fingers, brushing over the scars she'd once thought she couldn't ever tell  _anyone_  about; the surprising strength of his arms, wrapped around her despite knowing the truth, and the softness of his breath in her ear, telling her that he loved her  _still_ , scars and all.

She recalled, too, the dark cloud that had enveloped a lonely, neglected little boy with  _her_  eyes, and the desperate, unhappy man he had become; the silver glow of an ethereal doe that would never truly replace the light that he had lost on that dark, wind-whipped hilltop.

Calista took a breath.

"Actually, Gerald, there's… there's a lot that's happened that you don't know. Do you want to come over for dinner? I'll tell you everything on the way…"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Severus' ability to remain stoic shattered abruptly when they were preparing to leave the grounds, and he had reached for her hand, automatically, to Apparate her home.

"Seriously, Dad," Calista had said, shaking her head and stepping back, "I'm eighteen years old, I've had my Apparition license for nearly eight months, and I know the coordinates by heart. I can Apparate myself."

He had blanched and nodded and taken his leave in quite a hurry, then, but not before Calista caught the peculiar expression twisting up his face; if they had been back at his quarters, she'd have stopped what she was doing and gone straight to the coffee pot, and then she would have slipped quietly into the chair across from him until he spoke — but she no longer belonged in the castle, and neither did that table. It, like her father, would be waiting for her at home.

In the meantime, she had promised Gerald the truth. She waited until he had temporarily Vanished her flowers, and both of them had Disapparated and reappeared with twin  _pops_  at the familiar spot on the far bank of the dull, grey river in Cokeworth. Either Severus had Apparated to a different location, or he had made swift progress home, because he was nowhere in sight when she and Gerald stepped carefully out of the hidden alcove and across to the patchy, grassy bank.

"What's happened?" Gerald asked, finally, "You're not in any danger, are you?"

Calista frowned. Suddenly, a wave of dread overcame her, as she considered telling him everything that he had missed; she couldn't quite shake the sharp pain that had crept into her gut, when her father had seen the truth of that night on the grounds, when he'd shouted and railed and utterly failed to understand, at first, what it had cost her to push through her darkest fears.

"No," she said, "Not… not anymore, but I  _was_. I'll tell you, but you have to promise you won't yell at me, or scold me, or tell me how  _wildly irresponsible_ I was — I've already been told, and I don't care, I'd still do everything just the same."

"Calista?" Gerald's eyes had gone wide with alarm, "Why would I scold you — what did you  _do_ , precisely?"

"And," Calista went on, ignoring his question, "If  _you_  start up with yelling at me, I'm either going to want to hex you or I'm going to cry, and I'm honestly not even sure which would be worse."

Gerald blinked, and took a series of breaths. Silently, they crossed the bridge over the river, and started a slow, careful ascent up the far bank, picking their way over the weeds and rocks.

"All right," Gerald said at last, "I promise, I won't scold you, about whatever it is that's happened. I'm certain I'll just be glad you're all right."

"We'll see," Calista said, but then she took a breath, and started the tale.

Gerald didn't scold, but he  _did_ grip her hand or her arm quite tightly in some spots, and emit an astounding variety of alarmed sounds — the first of which came when she admitted that she'd already known what Remus was, and the second of which followed swiftly when she told him how she had found the map, and the goblet of Wolfsbane potion on his desk.

There was even  _more_  to the truth, it turned out, than Calista had realised; when Gerald asked her why she hadn't gone to Professor Dumbledore upon discovering the map, she had to go all the way back to her strange conversation with the Headmaster, before Christmas, and the ensuing warning from her father. There were elements to that story that she  _couldn't_  relay, because doing so would have given up more than only her own secrets, but she did tell him about Severus' fears that Professor Dumbledore's sudden interest in her was undoubtedly tied to her very useful abilities as a legilimens.

"I think he's afraid I'll be talked into something I don't quite understand," Calista offered, as a hesitant explanation; though it didn't quite encompass the entirety of what her father was afraid of, it seemed the safest thing to tell him. "And because of that, he'd  _just_  told me not to speak to Professor Dumbledore without him, and I couldn't find anyone else, and I just didn't know what to  _do_."

"So you went outside?" Gerald asked; she could  _hear_  how badly he wanted to lambast her with the phrase ' _wildly irresponsible_ ', but true to his word, he refrained, as she nodded, confirming his worst fears.

"Yes," she said, "I did; and if you think you're frightened about that, imagine how  _I_ felt. I knew about the dementors, and I knew that Prof — that Remus was a werewolf, and that he hadn't taken the potion — but it was my  _Dad_  out there. Imagine if… imagine if it was your mum, or Terry. Wouldn't you have gone?"

Gerald frowned, and reached for her hand, twining his fingers through hers and squeezing, in a gesture that seemed designed to reassure himself as much as to reassure her.

"I don't know," he admitted, "I suppose I  _should_  say that I would, but… but I honestly don't know what I would have done. I would have been terrified."

"I was," she told him, "I still  _am_ , when I think about it all."

She continued the story, as they meandered slowly along the virtually deserted side streets that led to Spinner's End; there was only one spot where Gerald didn't  _quite_  seem to be able to keep his promise, and it exploded out of him as they reached the end of her street:

"Wait, I'm sorry — " he interjected, jaw dropping with disbelief, "You're saying you had no idea whether your Freezing Charm would work on Dark Creatures, and you decided to find out while a  _fully-transformed werewolf_  was charging you?"

" _I didn't really have a better option!_ " she hissed in response; and then, once again, the truth spiralled into something deeper. She thought again about the  _other_  spell, the  _only_  other one that had leapt into her mind at the sight of the wolf; as they stopped at the bottom stair in front of her house, she resolved to tell him about it, properly, later. There was only so much truth she could stand to part with, just now.

Gerald frowned, silencing his protest with significant effort, and she pushed on. He had only one more interjection, when she got to the part where she had summoned her Patronus, driving the dementors away.

"So you've got it back?" he asked, sounding relieved, "Your Patronus?"

Calista halted, as they reached the front stairs of her house. She half-expected the door to fly open of its own accord, as it tended to do when her father was waiting for her to arrive home, but it didn't.

"Not exactly," Calista said, as she withdrew her house key from her pocket, and fit it to the lock; she drew her wand out too, sliding the key back, and tapped the lock, murmuring the charms that would open the door.

He followed her into the house; the front room was dark, and silent. When her eyes adjusted, she caught sight of a scrap of parchment on the table, and she snatched it up, scanning the note in her father's familiar hand:

_Calista —_

_If you arrive before I do, I'm out running a few brief errands. I'll be home shortly._

—  _S_

Calista raised her eyebrows. "He's not home; no wonder the front door didn't burst open when we arrived."

"I did wonder about that." Gerald smiled softly, and then, gently, he reminded her:

"Your Patronus?"

"Oh." Calista replaced the note, and lifted her wand. "Yes; as I said, I didn't exactly get it  _back_.  _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A brilliant, silvery light filled the room — both of them stepped back, as the ghostly shape filled the space between them, wings spreading from one wall to the opposite.

"Goodness," Gerald said, once he had recovered; he pushed his glasses up his nose, eyeing the phantom creature with keen interest. "Is that a  _thestral_?"

Calista nodded, and then, realising he might not have noticed, she confirmed: "Yes, it is is."

He studied it for a moment. "Fascinating," he murmured, and then: "You know, I've never actually seen one."

Calista blinked, as the thestral lowered its neck, extending her nose, in its customary gesture, for her to pat it. "You've never seen a thestral?"

Gerald shook his head. "No. I know they're at Hogwarts, of course, but I can't see them myself."

Calista frowned, feeling a sudden chill. She waved her wand, hurriedly vanishing the silvery form of her Patronus, and she felt the ensuing, abrupt dark of the room wrap itself around her like a cloak, or a shield.

"I… I've never  _not_  been able to see them," she confessed, into the darkness.

There was a brief, awkward silence, during which Calista was certain she could feel her heart sinking — and then, suddenly, there were footsteps, and Gerald was right in front of her, reaching for her hands. She slipped her wand back into her pocket, just as she realised that the room  _wasn't_  completely dark, after all: a crack of fading daylight still seeped in around the edge of the curtain.

"Rowena Ravenclaw," he said, inexplicably, and Calista furrowed her brow.

"Erm, what?"

"Ravenclaw," he said again, "Her Patronus was a thestral; it was originally going to be the emblem for Ravenclaw House, you know — the other founders all used their Patronuses — but thestrals were even more misunderstood  _then_  than they are now, and Rowena was afraid no one would want to be in Thestral House, so she chose to represent her House with her Animagus form, instead — an eagle."

Calista blinked. She had never heard that, before;  _Hogwarts, A History_  only said that Ravenclaw was an Animagus, but it hadn't specified what form she took  _or_  where the House emblems had come from. "Are you certain?"

Gerald hunched his shoulders slightly, and nudged the floor with his toe.

"I slept with her Chocolate Frog card under my pillow for years, remember?" he muttered, sheepishly, "I'm  _positive_  that was the form her Patronus took. According to historical texts, though, no one ever saw it after her daughter disappeared; popular opinion is that she lost the ability, or at least the will, to produce one."

"I forgot about that," Calista said, feeling an amused smile creep to her face, despite herself. "The… the card under your pillow."

"I'd thank you profusely to forget about it again," Gerald groused good-naturedly, "I still wish Chadwick hadn't told you — but anyway, I just wanted you to realise, there's nothing  _wrong_  with your Patronus taking that form… it's rather impressive, actually. Magical creatures of any sort are quite rare."

Calista exhaled, relieved. "I know," she said, "I just — I was afraid  _you_  might think…"

Gerald smiled, and lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it in a well-practised gesture that never failed to make her heart flutter and her cheeks warm.

"Don't you realise by now,  _mon cœur,_  that I know you better than that? I know you're kind, and courageous, and clever —"

He pulled her closer, and then his mouth was by her ear, his breath sending a wave of warmth through parts of her body it was probably better not to think about just now —

" _Et belle, et brillante, et totalement irrésistible…_ "

She shivered, and then started, as she heard the unmistakable sound of Severus' key in the lock; she inwardly cursed his timing, just as Gerald retreated, with obvious reluctance.

" _And_ ," he finished, as the door swung open, illuminating the room, "Sometimes, I fear — you're  _wildly irresponsible —_ but that's not the worst of it, and perhaps you're not as unique in that latter aspect as I've led you to believe."

Something clicked, then; something in the the sudden, sheepish look he wore reminded her of a similar expression she'd caught, earlier that day, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, as Severus locked the door behind him, pretending he wasn't eavesdropping.

"Elyse Briggs," Calista said, "She  _did_  know who you were, didn't she? What was she talking about, when she said something about  _troublesome lists_?"

Gerald flushed, and dragged his toe along the floorboards again, and she knew instantly that she'd guessed correctly. "Erm…"

Severus swept a glance over them, but mercifully, he elected to proceed silently to the kitchen. He had a greasy, steaming brown paper sack in his arms that looked awfully similar to the ones from the fish and chips shop at the corner, and smelled delicious.

Calista raised her brow. "Out with it, Gerald," she teased firmly, "You called me 'Snapelet' earlier — you  _owe_  me the truth."

Gerald swallowed. "Second year," he murmured, out of the side of his mouth, "It was — you know, I was having trouble with… with Flint and them, and I was nervous about my father's release, and I — erm —"

"Go on."

"I  _may_  have been keeping a list of hexes and poisons," Gerald admitted, "Just — you know, just in case."

Calista grinned. "You didn't."

"I didn't use any of them," he reassured her quickly, stuttering through the rest of his admission, "But all right,  _yes_ , I kept the list — and I thought I was being clever, translating it into French runes, but Elyse found it in the common room, and she realised what it was, and I ended up having it confiscated and spending an entire Saturday in detention."

"Keeping a list of forbidden spells," Calista teased; she couldn't quite keep her face straight. "Was this during that time that you were in the library all the time researching 'protective' runes? When you were trying to work up the nerve to talk to  _me_?"

"I was twelve," Gerald said, with a slight pleading note; she noticed he didn't deny that the spells were  _forbidden_. "And I really  _was_  researching protective runes, too — I just thought I should have a backup plan — it was stupid, really…"

"It's a shame, really, that you  _didn't_  come and talk to me," Calista said wistfully, electing to end his obvious discomfort, "I probably could've given you a few more spells."

She saw him blink, as the implication hit him.

"Didn't you hear Elyse?" she reminded him, " _I_ was keeping a list, too. I didn't think to disguise it with runes, but I  _did_  eventually go back and add all the counter-curses and antidotes."

Gerald blinked again, and then he grinned, fondly.

"Of course you were," he said, "And of course you did."

"Dinner," Severus called from the kitchen.

Calista explained quickly and quietly about the book, and giving her edited version to earlier Eva that morning, and then the two of them went into the kitchen.

"So that's what Kim Avery meant, about 'corrupting' you," Gerald murmured; they both ignored Severus' swift, suspicious glance in their direction. Calista looked back at Gerald, nodding agreement, and not even bothering to look and see what Severus had brought for dinner.

"Yeah. That's what she meant."

Gerald smiled again, and then suddenly, it went sly.

"Kim," he said, and then he reached for her hands, "She — erm, actually, her announcement today reminded me of something I've been meaning to ask you…"

Severus made a sudden yelping noise in his throat, that quickly transitioned into a growl; Calista started, and Gerald appeared to bite back a grin.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he went on, lifting her hands slightly between his, "If you'd do me the honour…"

Severus advanced, breathing venomously down Gerald's neck; Gerald glanced up at him, and suddenly seemed to find the rest of his sentence very quickly:

"Of accompanying me to Chadwick and Mira's wedding," he finished, "As — as my date?"

"Uhm," Calista said, cheeks going pink. She'd never been to a wedding, before. She had no idea what being invited to one  _meant_ , or why it had put her father so suddenly on edge — but she couldn't come up with reason to refuse quickly enough, so she nodded. "I — erm, I guess so, as long as… as long as it's all right with my Dad…"

Severus, inexplicably, had relaxed, though he was looking decidedly petulant. He sneered.

"Why wouldn't it be?" he groused, and then: "That's  _all_  you've been meaning to ask her, then?"

Gerald looked up, eyes innocently wide.

"Of course it is, sir." he cocked his head, a bit  _too_ casually. "What did you  _think_  I was going to ask her?"

Severus muttered darkly, something that sounded suspiciously like "You nevermind that, boy," but Calista's stomach was rumbling, and she had finally looked down, to see what Severus had brought for dinner.

She turned, extracting her hands from Gerald's. It wasn't the food that made her suddenly, buoyantly happy: it was where it was  _sitting_.

"The table!" Calista said, and in that moment — in that kitchen, with her two favourite people and a surprising dearth of secrets — she thought she could have summoned a hundred Patronuses, "You  _did_  bring it home!"

Severus grumbled; Gerald chuckled. Calista grinned.

It wasn't everything; it was far from the end. But for now, it was enough.

All was well.


End file.
